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Favorite Poetic Gems of the English Language, 


The Uncrowned Kings and Queens of American Homes. 




Chaplain National House of Representatives, Washington, D. C, 

Author of "The Pioneer Preachers and People of the Mississippi "Valley ; " "The Rifle, 
Axe and Saddlebags;" "Ten Years of Preacher Life," Etc., Etc.' 



( JUN 3 1886/ 

NEW TORIC AND ST. LOUIS: ^*—J, ,, " — ^ 





Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1886, by 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 





The Cotter's Saturday Night . . Robert Burns 17 

Make Home-Life Beautiful . . B. G. Northrup 23 

Sougs of Seven Jean Ingelow 24 

The Old Oaken Bucket . . Samuel Woodworth 28 

Graves of a Household . . Felicia D. Hemans 29 

Childhood Home B. P. Shillaber (Mrs. Partington) 30 

Bain on the Boof Coates Kinney 30 

Bairnies, Cuddle Doon . . Alexander Anderson 31 

Old Folks at Home . . Stephen Collins Foster 31 

Home, Sweet Home . . . John Howard Payne 31 

My Old Kentucky Home . Stephen Collins Foster 32 

Be Kind Anonymous 32 

Mothers, Spare Yourselves .... Anonymous 32 

In a Strange Land . . . James Thomas Fields 33 

The Patter of Little Feet .... Anonymous 33 

Catching Shadows E. Hannaford 34 

A Cradle Hymn Isaac Watts 34 

Joys of Home Sir John Bowring 35 

John Anderson, My Jo ... . Robert Burns 36 

Christmas Stockings . . . Benjamin F. Taylor 36 


On the Doorstep . . Edmund Clarence Stedman 37 

The Departure Alfred Tennyson 38 

First Love Lord Byron 38 

No Time like the Old Time . . . Anonymous 39 

Mary Morison Robert Burns 39 

Early Love Samuel Daniel 40 

Cherry-Ripe Richard Alison 40 

How Do I Love Thee Elizabeth Barrett Browning 40 

Winnifreda Anonymous 41 

Her Likeness . . . Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 41 

Ae Fond Kiss before We Part . . Robert Burns 41 

My True Love Hath my Heart . Philip Sidney 42 

Love's Philosophy . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley 42 

Good Bye Thomas Moore 42 

How Many Times . . Thomas Lovell Beddoes 43 

Absence ■ . . . . Robert Burns 43 

Coming through the Rye . . . Robert Burns 43 

Comin' through the Bye . Adapted from Bums 43 

Hark! Hark! the Lark . . Wm. Shakespeare 43 

O Fairest of the Rural Maids Wm. Cullen Bryant 44 

Rock Me to Sleep Elzi. A. Allen (Florence Percy) 44 

Pack Clouds Away .... Thomas Heywood 45 

Linger not Long Anonymous 45 

Song Gerald Griffin 46 


Love's Young Dream .... Thomas Moore 46 

Love is Enough Ella Wheeler 46 

If Thou Wert by My Side . . Reginald Seber 47 

Pain of Love Henry Constable 47 

Bonnie Mary Robert Bums 48 

Sweet Hand Anonymous 48 

Three Kisses . . . Elizabeth Barrett Browning 49 

To an Absent Wife .... George D. Prentice 49 

The Flower o' Dumblane . . Robert Tannahill 49 

Come into the Garden, Maud . Alfred Tennyson 50 

To Althea, from Prison . . . Richard Lovelace 50 

A Woman's Question . Adelaide Anne Proctor 52 

Doris Arthur J. Munby 52 

Sad are They Who Know not Love T. B. Aldrich 53 

Swallow, Flying South . . Alfred Tennyson 53 
She was a Phantom of Delight Wm. Wordsworth 53 

Margaret Walter Savage Landor 53 

The Milking Maid . Christina Georgina Rosetti 54 

Under the Blue Francis F. Browne 55 

Kiss Me Softly John Godfrey Saxe 55 

Pearls Richard Henry Stoddard 56 

A Bird at Sunset . . . Robert Bulwer Lytton 56 

Serenade Oscar Wilde 56 

Bird of Passage Edgar Fawcett 57 

1 Fear Thy Kisses . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley 57 
When the Kye Comes Hame . . James Hogg 57 
The Patriot's Bride . Sir Charles Gavan Duffy 5S 
Janette's Hair . . . Charles Graham Halpine 5S 

Wooing John B. L. Soule 59 

Sweet and Low Alfred Tennyson 59 

The Brookside R. Monckton Milnes(LordHoughton) 60 

The Old Story Elizabeth A. Allen (Florence Percy) 60 

Evening Song Sidney Lanier 60 

A Parting Michael Drayton 61 

A Mother's Love Samuel Rogers 61 

I do Confess Thou'rt Sweet . Sir Robert Ayton 61 

The Passionate Shepherd . Christopher Marlowe 62 

The Nymph's Reply . . . Sir Walter Raleigh 62 

Love is a Sickness Samuel Daniel 62 

Freedom in Dress Ben Jonson 62 

Phillis the Fair Nicholas Breton 63 

You and I W. H. Burleigh 63 

O, Saw Ye the Lass Richard Ryan 64 

We Parted in Silence .... Julia Crawford 64 

Come to Me, Dearest .... Joseph Brennan 64 

Absence William Shakespeare 65 

Why so Pale and Wan . . . Sir John Suckling 65 

Don't be Sorrowful, Darling . Rembrandt Peale 65 

Julia . .- Robert Herrick 65 





The Bloom was on the Alder . . . Don Piatt 66 

The Gowan Glitters on the Sward Joanna Baillie 67 

She Walks in Beauty Lord Byron 68 

Aux Italiens Bobert Bulwer Lytton 68 

The Welcome Thomas Davis 69 

A Pastoral John Byrom 70 

Love at First Sight Jean Ingelow 71 

A Spinning-Wheel Song . John Francis Waller 72 

Philip My King . . Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 73 

Af ton Water Bobert Burns 74 

The Lily- Pond . . . George Parsons Lathrop 75 

Cupid and Campaspe John Lyly 76 

The Day Returns, My Bosom Burns . B. Bums 76 


A Forest Hymn . . . William Gullen Bryant 77 

Nature '. Jones Very 79 

The Nightingale . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 79 

Hymn on the Seasons . . . James Thompson 80 

Night Lord Byron S3 

The Sea Lord Byron 84 

The Rainbow William Wordsworth 85 

The Shepherd John Dyer 86 

The World is Too Much with Us W. Wordsworth 87 

Breathings of Spring . Felicia Dorothea Hemans S7 

Varying Impressions from Nature W. Wordsworth 88 

Evening William Wordsworth 89 

Hymn Before Sunrise . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 90 

To the Daisy William Wordsworth 91 

Dawn Bichard Watson Gilder 92 

The Barn Owl Samuel Butler 92 

Before the Rain . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich 94 

After the Rain . . . Thomas Bailey Aldrich 94 

Night Edward Young 94 

Summer .... John Townsend Trowbridge 95 

Day Breaking John Marston 96 

To the Nightingale .... Bichard Bamfield 9S 

The Mount of the Holy Cross . . Anonymous 98 

The Heath-Cock ■ Joanna Baillie 99 

A June Day Howitt 100 

The Sky-Lark James Hogg 101 

To the Turtle-Dove D. Conway 101 

The Rainbow James Thomson 102 

To a Water-Fowl . . William Cullen Byrant 103 

Violets Bobert Herrick 103 

The AVind -Flower Jones Very 104 

Christmas in the Woods . . . Harrison Weir 104 

The Eagle Anna Letitia Barbauld 105 

A Ram Reflected in the Water . W. Wordsworth 106 

The Squirrel-Hunt .... William Browne 107 

Summer Woods John Clare 108 

On a Goldfinch William Cowper 109 

Changes in Nature Anonymous 109 

Morning Song Joanna Baillie 110 

The Squirrel William Cowper 110 

The Ivy Green Charles Dickens 111 

The Thrush's Nest John Clare 111 


The Dying Stag Giles Fletcher 112 

Night Edward Everett 112 

To Seneca Lake .... James Gates Percival 113 

A Woodnote Howitt 114 

Lambs at Play Bobert Bloomfield 115 

The Hare William Somerville 116 

To a Sky-Lark .... Percy Bysshe Shelley 116 

To a Wild Deer John Wilson {Christopher North) 118 

The Heath Charlotte Smith 119 

The Swallow Charlotte Smith 120 

The Sierras Joaquin Miller 121 

Snow-Flakes . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 121 

The Dog and the Water-Lily . William Cowper 122 

Planting the Apple-Tree William Cullen Bryant 123 

The Daisy James Montgomery 124 

The Robin Harrison Weir 126 

Spring and Winter . . William Shakespeare 128 

March William Cullen Bryant 128 

To a Young Ass . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 129 

The First Day of Spring . William G. Simms 130 

Day is Dying . Mrs. Lewes Cross {George Eliot) 131 

Song of the Brook .... Alfred Tennyson 131 

Hail, Holy Light John Milton 132 

Spring Thomas Gray 133 

A Winter Morning .... William Cowper 134 

Wintry Weather David Gray 135 

May-Day . . . John Wolcott (Peter Pindar) 136 

The Early Primrose . . Henry Kirke White 136 

Loves of the Plants . . . Erasmus Darwin 137 

The Angler Anonymous 137 

To a Nightingale . . . William Drummond 137 

The Tiger William Blake 138 

The Eagle Alfred Tennyson 139 

A Summer Morn James Beattie 140 

Sunset at Norham Castle . Sir Walter Scott 141 

To the Dandelion . . . James Bussell Lowell 142 

Hymn to the Flowers . . . Horace Smith 142 

Solace in Nature . . . William Wordsworth 143 

June James Bussell Lowell 144 

To a Mountain Daisy .... Bobert Burns 145 

The Angler's Wish Izaak Walton 146 

The Broom Mary Howitt 147 

Ode to Leven Water . Tobias George Smollet 147 

A Spring Day Bobert Bloomfield 14S 

The Little Beach-Bird . Bichard Henry Dana 148 

The Aged Oak at Oakley . . . Henry Alford 149 

The Pheasant Anonymous 150 

The Thrush Anonymous 150 

Snow Ralph Hoyt 150 

The O'Lincoln Family . . . Wilson Flagg iol 

Solitude of the Sea Lord Byron 151 

Summer Drought J. P. Irvine 152 

The Rhine Lprd Byron 153 

To a Mountain Oak . . George Henry Boker 154 

Forest Pictures . . . Paul Hamilton Hayne 155 

Flowers John Milton 156 

Under the Leaves .... Albert Laighton 158 

Winter William Cowper loS 



The Flower's Name . . . Robert Browning 159 

Spring in Carolina Henry Timrod 159 

The Lark William Shakespeare 160 

Grizzly Bret Sarte 160 

The Violet William Wetmore Story 161 

Calm and Storm on Lake Leman . Lord Byron 161 

Freedom of Nature .... James Thomson 161 

Three Summer Studies . . James Barron Hope 162 

Imaginative Sympathy with Nature Lord Byron 164 

September George Arnold 165 

Flowers Thomas Hood 166 

Stars Lord Byron 166 

Signs of Rain Dr. Edward Jenner 167 

Daffodils William Wordsworth 168 

Sonnet on the River Rhine . Win. Lisle Bowles 169 

To the Cuckoo John Logan 170 

March William Morris 170 

The Shaded Water . . William Gilmore Simms 171 

November Hartley Coleridge 172 

The Sea in Calm and Storm . George Crabbe 173 

Midges Dance Aboon the Burn . B. Tannahill 175 

Nature's Delights John Keats 175 

Harvest Time .... Paul Hamilton Hayne 175 

The Evening Wind . . William Cullen Bryant 176 

Nature's Magnificence . . James Montgomery 177 

Spring Alfred Tennyson 178 

It Snows Mrs. S- J. Hale 179 

Sunrise at Sea Epes Sargent 180 

Invocation to Nature . Percy Bysshe Shelley 1S1 

Table Mountain, Good Hope James Montgomery 181 

The Poet's Solitude Lord Byron 1S2 


A Country Life Robert Herrick 183 

A Wish Samuel Rogers 1S5 

Town and Country .... William Cowper 186 

The Homestead Phozbe Gary 1S6 

Sunday in the Fields . . . Ebenezer Elliot 188 

Blossom-Time Mary E. Dodge 189 

The Praise of a Solitary Life . Wm. Drummond 190 

The Old Mill . . . Richard Henry Stoddard 190 

Farming Edward Everett 191 

Two Pictures Marion Douglass 192 

The Ploughman . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes 192 

The Useful Plough ....... Anonymous 193 

Country Life . .' Anonymous 195 

The City and the Country . . . Anonymous 195 

The Haymakers George Lunt 195 

The Song of the Mowers . . W. H. Burleigh 196 

The Cornfield James Thomson 197 

The Mowers William Allingham 198 

When the Cows Come Home . MaryE.Nealey 199 

Come to the Sunset Tree . Felicia D. Hemans 200 

My Little Brook .... Mary Bolles Branch 201 

A Harvest Hymn W. D. Gallagher 202 

The Old House . . Louise Chandler Moulton 202 

Rural Nature William Barnes 203 

The Farmer's Boy .... Robert Bloomfield 201 

Farmyard Song . . John Townsend Trowbridge 205 

Harvest Song Eliza Cook 206 

The Farmer's Wife . . Paul Hamilton Hayne 206 

The Pumpkin . . . John Greenleaf Whittier 207 

Robert of Lincoln . . William Cullen Bryant 20S 

On the Banks of the Tennessee W. D. Gallagher 209 

Summer Longings . Denis Florence MacCarthy 210 

Farm Life Anonymous 210 

Summer Woods . . William Henry Burleigh 211 

The Village Boy Clarke 212 

The Barefoot Boy . . John Greenleaf Whittier 212 

The Country Life . . Richard Henry Stoddard 214 

Happy the Man Whose Wish and Care Alex. Pope 215 

Contentment with Nature . . . James Beattie 215 

Nightfall : a Picture .... Alfred B. Street 217 

The House on the Hill . . . Eugene J. Hall 218 


Our Own Countiy . . . James Montgomery 221 

The Star-Spangled Banner . Francis Scott Key 221 

Hail Columbia Joseph Hopkinson 222 

The American Flag . . Joseph Rodman Drake 222 

English National Anthem . . . Henry Carey 223 

Rule, Britannia James Thomson 223 

French National Anthem French of Roget De Lisle 223 

Prussian National Anthem . From the German 224 

The German's Fatherland . From the German 224 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . Mrs. Hemans 225 

Hallowed Ground .... Thomas Campbell 226 

Harp of the North .... Sir Walter Scott 227 

Marco Bozzaris .... Fitz-Greene Halleck 227 

Of Old Sat Freedom on the Heights A. Tennyson 22S 

Freedom John Barbour 22S 

Love of Liberty William Cowper 229 

The Source of Party Wisdom James A. Garfield 229 

A Curse on the Traitor . . . Thomas Moore 230 

Downfall of Poland . . . Thomas Campbell 230 

Green Fields of England . Arthur Hugh Clough 230 

Eternal Spirit of the Chainless Mind Lord Byron 230 

Bannoekburn Robert Burns 231 

Our Country's Call . . William Cullen Bryant 231 

What Constitutes a State . Sir William Jones 232 

The Love of Country . . . Sir Walter Scott 232 

It's Hame, and It's Hame . Allan Cunningham 232 


The Battle of Alexandria . James Montgomery 233 

The Ballad of Agincourt . . Michael Drayton 234 

Ye Mariuers of England . . Thomas Campbell 235 

Waterloo Lord Byron 236 

The Unreturning Brave .... Lord Byron 236 

The Charge of the Light Brigade . A. Tennyson 237 

Song of the Camp Bayard Taylor 237 

Hohenlinden Thomas Campbell 23S 

Carmen Bellicosum . Guy Humphrey McMaster 238 



Monterey Charles Fenno Hoffman 239 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic Julia Ward Howe 239 

My Maryland James R. Randall 239 

The Countersign Anonymous 240 

The Picket Guard Ethel Linn Beers 241 

Bethel Augustine J. H. Duganne 241 

Civil War Charles Dawson Shanly 242 

" How are You, Sanitary" . . . Bret Harte 242 

Kearney at Seven Pines . Edmund C. Stedman 243 

The Old Sergeant .... Forceythe Willson 244 

Sheridan's Ride . . . Thomas Buchanan Read 246 

Stonewall Jackson's Way . . . J. W. Palmer 247 

Barbara Frietchie . . John Greenleaf Whittier 248 

John Burns of Gettysburg .... Bret Harte 249 

The Charge by the Ford . Thomas Dunn English 250 

The Cavalry Charge . . . Francis A. Durivage 250 

Cavalry Song . . . Edmund Clarence. Stedman 251 

The C. S. Army's Commissary Ed. P. Thompson 252 

SoDg of the Soldiers C. <?. Halpine (Miles O'Reilly) 254 


"Atlantic" Benjamin F. Taylor 255 

The Wind in a Frolic .... William Howitt 256 

In the Maine Woods . . Henry David Thoreau 258 

A Life on the Ocean Wave . . . Epes Sargent 260 

Skipper Ireson's Ride . John Greenleaf Whittier 261 

The Rustic Bridge William Cowper 262 

Noon in Midsummer .... Louisa Bushnell 263 

The Sea in Calm B. W. Proctor (Barry Cornwall) 264 

Burial of Moses . . . Cecil Francis Alexander 264 

Money Musk Benjamin F. Taylor 266 

The Old Village Choir . . Benjamin F. Taylor 267 

The Old Home .... Oliver Wendell Holmes 268 

The Power of Habit J. B. G-ough 268 

The Village Blacksmith . . H.W. Longfellow 269 

The Destruction of Sennacherib . Lord Byron 270 

The New England School . Oliver W. Holmes 270 

The Tempest James Thomas Fields 271 

Evening Cloud John Wilson ( Christopher North) 271 

The Stream of Life Reginald Heber 271 

Lucy Gray William Word,sworth 272 

The Snow-Storm . . Charles Gamage Eastman 273 

Casabianca . ... . Felicia Dorothea Hemans 274 

The Old Canoe Emily R. Page 274 

A Greyport Legend Bret Harte 275 

The Grape- Vine Swing . William Gilmore Simms 276 

Moonlight on the Prairie . . H. W. Longfellow 276 

We'll Go to Sea no More . . . Miss Corbett 277 

The Wrecked Ship .... William Falconer 278 

The Pilot John B. Gotigh 278 

The Burning of Chicago . Benjamin F. Taylor 279 

A Northern Winter . . . James Montgomery 281 

The Children in the Wood . . . Anonymous 2S2 

The Massacre of Fort Dearborn . B. F. Taylor 283 

The Shipwrecked Sailors . James Montgomery 284 

Mu-ic in Camp John R. Thompson 285 

The Death of Napoleon . . . Isaac McClellan 2S5 


The Grave of Bonaparte .... Anonymous 286 

The Overland Train Joaquin Miller 286 

Robbing the Nest Alice Cary 287 

The Famine . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 2S8 

The Bride Sir John Suckling 289 

The Old Mill W.H. Venable 290 

The Flood of Years . . William Cullen Bryant 291 

The Old Water- Wheel .... John Ruskin 292 

Wreck of the Ship Jno. Wilson (Christopher North) 293 

The Glove and the Lions .... Leigh Hunt 294 

The Heron .... James Maurice Thompson 295 

The Brides of Enderby .... Jean Ingelow 296 

Croquet Amanda T. Jones 297 

Lord Ullin's Daughter . . Thomas Campbell 29S 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill William Wordsworth 299 

Moonlight Robert Bloomfield 300 

The River Wye .... William Wordsworth 301 

Lochinvar's Ride Sir Walter Scott 301 

The Closing Vear .... George D. Prentice 302 

The Closing Scene . Thomas Buchanan Read 303 

Abraham Lincoln Tom Taylor 304 


Yarrow Unvisited . . . William Wordsworth 305 

Yarrow Visited .... William Wordsworth 306 

Yarrow Stream John Logan 307 

Melrose Abbey Sir Walter Scott 308 

Fair Greece ! Sad Relic of Departed Worth Byron 308 

The Inchcape Rock .... Robert Southpy SOS 

Cape Hatteras Josiah W. Holden 309 

The Burial of Sir John Moore . Charles Wolfe 311 

On Leaving the West . . . Margaret Fuller 312 

The Knight's Tomb . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 313 

Columbus . : Sir Aubrey De Vere 313 

To Thomas Moore Lord Byron 314 

To Victor Hugo Alfred Tennyson 314 

Mazzini . Laura C. Redden (Howard Glyndon) 314 

Byron Robert Pollok 314 

At the Tomb of Byron .... Joaquin Miller 315 

On the Portrait of Shakespeare . Ben Jonson 315 

The Lost Occasion . . John Greenleaf Whittier 316 

Nathaniel Hawthorne . . ..H.W.Longfellow 316 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . F. F. Browne 317 

Horace Greeley . . Edmund Clarence Stedman 317 

Joseph Rodman Drake -. Fits- Greene Halleck 318 

Dirge for a Soldier . . . George Henry Boker 31S 

Vale Richard Realf 319 

A Friend's Greeting .... Bayard Taylor 319 

My Psalm John Greenleaf Whittier 320 


Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard T. Gray 321 

Thanatopsis .... William Cullen Bryant 327 

I Remember, I Remember . . Thomas Hood 328 

Too Late I Stayed . . William Robert Spencer 329 

Two Sonnets Ed. Porter Thompson 329 




My Life is Like the Summer Rose . R. H. Wilde 330 

Night James Montgomery 330 

Break, Break, Break .... Alfred Tennyson 332 

Reflections in Westminster Abbey Joseph Addison 332 

Bugle-Song Alfred Tennyson 333 

Those Evening Bells .... Thomas Moore 331 

Pictures of Memory Alice Cary 334 

The Divinity of Poetry . Percy Bysshe Shelley 335 

The Le-sou of the Water-Mill . Sarah Doudney 336 

A Hundred Years to Come . William G. Brown 337 

The Two Weavers Hannah More 338 

Apple Blossoms Anonymous 339 

June William Cullen Bryant 339 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School Mrs. Hemans 341 

What is Life Francis Quarles 342 

Calm is the Night . . Charles Godfrey Leland 342 

Song Celia Thaxter 343 

May John Esten Cooke 343 

Pleasures of Memory .... Samuel Sogers 344 

A Joy Forever John Keats 346 

'Tis the List Rose of Summer . Thomas Moore 346 

The Isle of the Long Ago . . ' . B. F. Taylor 346 

Hope Thomas' Campbell 347 

To a Child John James Piatt 347 

Sonnet Paul Hamilton Hayne 34S 

Life's Incongruities Egbert Phelps 348 

Equinoctial Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney 348 

Circumstance Alfred Tennyson 349 

The JKose upon My Balcony . W.M.Thackeray 349 

The Deith of the Old Year . Alfred Tennyson 350 

Hope Joaquin Miller 351 

Al.s! How Light a Cause . . Thomas Moore 351 

The Library Robert Southey 352 

Woodman, Spare that Tree . . G. P. Morris 353 

Small Beginnings Charles Mackay 354 

Song William Allingham 355 

The Kiver John Hay 355 

Hope Richard Alison 355 

F.delity William Wordsvjorth 356 

Toward Home . . . Nathaniel Parker Willis 357 

Lines William D. Gallagher 357 

A Li tie Word in Kindness Spoken Colesworthy 357 

The Way to Sing . Helen Hunt Jackson (H.H.) 358 

The First Tryst John James Piatt 359 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton College T. Gray 359 

Upon the Beach . . . Henry David Thoreau 360 

Sati-fied Charlotte Fiske Bates 361 

Think of Me .... John Hamilton Reynolds 361 

Ashes of Roses Elaine Goodale 361 

Forever John Boyle CReilly 362 

Bells of Shandon Francis Mahony (Father Prout) 362 

Hearts that Hunger Anonymous 363 

I Saw Two Clouds at Morning J. G. C. Brainard 363 

Self- Dependence Matthew Arnold 364 

Days of My Youth . ... St. George Tucker 364 

Auld Lang Syne Robert Burns 364 

Lazy . . . George Arnold 365 


We Have Been Friends Together C. E. S. Norton 365 

A Name in the Sand . . . George D. Prentice 366 

On Visiting a Scene of Childhood . Anonymous 366 

Mother, Home, Heaven . Wm. Goldsmith Brown 367 

Give Me Back My Youth Again . Bayard Taylor 367 

At Last Caroline Leslie 36S 

Waiting William Goldsmith Brown 368 

The Book of Job Thomas Carlyle 36S 

Mortality William Knox. 369 

Oft in the Stilly Night .... Thomas Moore 369 

The Light-House . . Sarah Hammond Palfrey 370 

At Best John Boyle O'Reilly 370 

By the Autumn Sea . . Paul Hamilton Hayne 371 

Take Heart Edna Dean Proctor 371 

Time Rolls His Ceaseless Course Sir Walter Scott 372 

When Stars are in the Quiet Skies . E. B. Lytton 372 

Dreamers Joaquin Miller 373 

Answer to a Child's Question . iS'. T. Coleridge 373 

Indirection Richard Renlf 373 

Alone by the Hearth .... George Arnold 374 

Waiting b} r the Gate . . William Cullen Bryant 375 

Gloster on His Deformity . Wm. Shakespeare 376 

Sunbeams Egbert Phelps 376 

The Vicissitudes of Life . William Shakespeare 376 

Estrangement . . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 377 

Hamlet's Soliloquy . . . William Shakespeare 377 

To-Day Thomas Carlyle 377 

The Stream Arthur Hugh Clough 378 


The Two Villages .... Rose Terry Cooke 379 

The Blind Boy Colley Cibber 3S0 

The Old Familiar Faces . . . Charles Lamb 380 

Churchyard of the Village . . . John Wilson 3S1 

My Heart and I . . Elizabeth Barrett Browning 3S1 

With ihe Dead .... Percy Bysshe Shelley 382 

A Death-Bed James Aldrich 3S3 

The Death of the Flowers . William C. Bryant 383 

Sands of Dee Charles Kingsley 384 

On My Mother's Picture . . William Coioper 3S5 

The Bridge of Sighs .... Thomas Hood 385 

Little Shoes and Stockiugs . . . Anonymous 3S6 

When We Two Parted Lord Byron 386 

Little Jim Anonymous 3S7 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant . Lady Dufferin 3SS 

The Old Sexton Park Benjamin 390 

The Old Arm-Chair Eliza Cook 390 

Man Was Made to Mourn . . . Robert Bums 390 

The Three Fishers .... Charles Kingsley 391 

The Voice of the Poor . Lady Wilde (Speranza) 392 

Under the Daisies . . . Hattie Tyng Grisioold 393 

Exile of Erin Thomas Campbell 393 

When the Grass shall Cover Me Ina D. Coolbrith 394 

Sleep Elizabeth Barret Browning 394 

The Song of the Shirt .... Thomas Hood 394 




The Conquered Banner . . . Abram T, Ryan 396 

If May Siley Smith 396 

Somebody's Darling . . . Marie B. Lacoste 397 

Rosalie William C. Richards 397 

Two Mysteries Mary Mapes Dodge 398 

Florence Vane . . . Philip Pendleton Cooke 398 

A Mother's Heart Anonymous 398 

The Dying Boy . Anonymous 399 

Ano-ehis Song ....... Austin Dobson 399 

Our Childhood George D. Prentice 400 

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp . Thomas Moore 400 

Balow, My Babe, Ly Stil and Sleipe Anonymous 401 

A Life . Bryan Waller Proctor (Barry Cornwall) 401 

"Only a Year" .... Harriet Beecher Stowe 402 

After the Ball . , Nora Perry 402 

The Hour of Death . Felicia Dorothea Hemans 403 

The Death-Bed Thomas Hood 403 

Sad is Our Youth, for It is Ever Going A.De Vere 404 

The Blind Boy . • Anonymous 404 

In the Sea Hiram Bich 404 

James Melville's Child Mrs. A. Stuart Menteath 405 

To Mary in Heaven Bobert Burns 406 

Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe 406 

We are Seven William Wordsworth 406 

Dirge Charles damage Eastman 407 

Three Kisses Hattie Tyng Grisioold 408 

The Brave at Home . Thomas Buchanan Bead 408 

Auld Robin Gray .... Lady Anne Barnard 409 

My Love is Dead .... Thomas Chatterton 409 

Old Times Anonymous 410 

Old BalphHoyt 410 

My Mother's Bible .... George P. Morris 412 

Bingeu on the Bhine Caroline Elizabeth S. Norton 413 

The Last of Seven Avis Willmott 414 

The Voiceless .... Oliver Wendell Holmes 414 

Resignation . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 414 

The Bivouac of the Dead . . Theodore O'Hara 415 

Our Soldiers' Graves Jones Very 416 

Bereavement John Keble 417 

Three Roses .... Thomas Bailey Aldrich 418 

Highland Mary Bobert Burns 418 

Requiescat Oscar Wilde 419 

The Blind Man . James Grahame 419 

The Plague-Stricken City . Marie B Williams 420 

Footsteps of Angels . . Henry W. Longfellow 420 

The Fate of Poets . . . William Wordsworth 421 

The Cradle Austin Dobson 421 

Into the World and Out . . Sallie M. B. Piatt 421 

The Reaper and the Flowers H. W. Longfellow 421 

Last Words Henry Alford 422 

Tears, Idle Tears Alfred Tennyson 423 

Dead in November E . Hannaford 424 

The Child's First Grief . . Felicia D. Hemans 424 

Hannah Binding Shoes .... Lucy Larcom 425 

The Cross .... Elizabeth (Bundle) Charles 425 

The Litt'e Mourner Henry Alford 426 

Baby Bell Thomas Bailey Aldrich 427 


Ben Bolt Thomas Dunn English 42S 

Decoration Da}' at Charleston . Henry Timrod 42S 

The Outcast Oliver Goldsmith 429 

The Blue and the Gray . . Francis Miles Finch 430 


Clear the Way Charles Maclcay 431 

What is Noble Charles Swain 432 

The Laborer William D. Gallagher 432 

Tact and Talent Anonymous 433 

Never Give Up Anonymous 434 

The Gentleman George W. Doane 434 

Want of Decision Sydney Smith 435 

For A' That, and A' That . . . Bobert Burns 435 

Ode to Duty William Wordsworth 436 

A Great Lawyer C. C. Bonney 436 

Labor Frances Sargent Osgood 437 

Advice to Young Men .... Noah Porter 437 

A Psalm of Life . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 438 

Trials a Test of Character William MorleyPunshon 438 

Gradatim Josiah Gilbert Holland 439 

How to Live Horatius Bonar 439 

Press On Park Benjamin 440 

A True Woman Bobert Dodsley 440 

The Supremacy of Virtue . . . John Milton 441 

Industry and Genius . . Henry Ward Beecher 441 

The Light of Stars Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 442 

A Happy Life Sir Henry Wotton 442 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom is Sir Edward Dyer 443 

Success in Life Anonymous 443 

Honorable Employment . . . John Webster 443 

A Rhyme of Life . . Charles Warren Stoddard 414 

Industry Benjamin Franklin 444 

My Work Frances Bidley Havergal 441 


Ode on Immortality . . William Wordsworth 445 

The Discoverer . . Edmund Clarence Stedman 447 

The Future Life . . . William Cullen Bryant 44S 

There is No Death J. L. McC'retry 44S 

'•Blessed are They that Mourn'' W. C. Bryant 449 

The Mariner's Hymn . Caroline Bowles Southey 449 

Abide with Us : for it is Evening . H. N. Powers 450 

Shall we Meet Again . . . George D. Prentice 450 

Home and Heaven Jones Very 451 

Rest is Not Here . . . Lady Caroline Nairne 451 

Peace 3Iary Clemmer Ames 451 

The Death of the Virtuous Anna Letitia Barbauld 452 

I Shall be Satisfied Anonymous 452 

The Mountains of Life . . . . J. G. Clark 452 

Immortality Bichard Henry Dana 453 

The Better Way Jean Ingelow 453 

The Way, the Truth and the Life Theodore Parker 453 

Rest Mary Woolsey Howland 454 




Only Waiting . . . Frances Laughton Mace 454 

Life Anna Letitia Barbauld 454 

Tell Me, Ye Winged Winds . Charles Mackay 455 

The Dying Christian to his Soul Alexander Pope 455 

Dying Hymn Alice Cary 455 

Heaven Nancy Priest Wakefield 456 

Heaven our Home . . . George D. Prentice 456 

Up-Hill Christina Q. Bosetti 456 

In Harbor Paul Hamilton Hayne 457 

Two Worlds Mortimer Collins 457 

When . . . Sarah Woolsey (Susan Coolidge) 458 

Abide with Me .... Henry Francis Lyte 45S 

"I Too" . . . Constance Fenimore Woolson 459 

No Sorrow There Daniel March 459 

This World is all a Fleeting Show Thos. Moore 459 

The Other World . . Harriet Beecher Stowe 460 

A Better World .... George D. Prentice 460 

Ministry oi Angels .... Edmund Spenser 460 

" Father, Take My Hand " . . Henry N. Cobb 461 

Ripe Grain Dora Bead Goodale 461 

Nearer Home Phoebe Cary 461 

The Pillar of the Cloud .- John Henry Newman 462 

Hereafter Harriet Prescott Spofford 462 

The Eternal Rest .... Edmund Spenser 462 

I Would Not Live Alway . Wm. A. Muhlenberg 463 

The Kest of the Soul . . . F. W Bobertson 463 

The Eternal Home .... Edmund Waller 463 

" Follow Me " Abram T. Byan 464 

All Before Anonymous 464 

The Divine Abode .... Philip Doddridge 464 

Safe to the Land Henry Alford 465 

Over the River . . . Nancy Priest Wakefield 465 

Parted Friends . . .* . James Montgomery 466 

The Eternal Percy Bysshe Shelley 466 

Beyond the Hills Horatius Bonar 466 


Down in the Harbor . . Elizabeth Akers Allen 467 

The Jolly Old Pedagogue . . George Arnold 46S 

Here's to Them that are Gane Lady Caroline Nairne 469 

The Toper's Apology .... Charles Morris 469 

A Visit from St. Nicholas . Clement C. Moore 470 

The Spacious Firmament on High Jos. Addison 471 

Negro Revival Hymn . Joel Chandler Harris 472 

The Old Shepherd's Dog J. Wolcott (Peter Pindar) 473 

The Bells . Edgar Allan Poe 474 

Aunt Silva Meets Young Mas'r Ed. P. Thompson 475 

The Grave James Montgomery 476 

The World Henry Vaughn 477 

William Tell among the Mountains J. S. Knowles 478 

My Heart 's in the Highlands . Bubert Burns 4S0 

The Raven Edgar Allan Poe 4S0 

There is Mist on the Mountain Sir Walter Scott 482 

The Dream of Argyle . Elizabeth H Whittier 483 

Childhood's Prayer .... Newton S. Otis 4S5 

The Lady's " Yes " Elizabeth Barrett Browning 486 

The Last Leaf .... Oliver Wendell Holmes 487 


The Noble Nature Ben Jonson 487 

Of a Contented Mind . . Thomas, Lord Vctux 4SS 

The Sea-Bird's Song John Gardiner C. Brainard 4S9 

The Mariner's Dream . . . William Dimond 400 

Ring Out, Wild Bells . . . Alfred Tennyson 490 

The Moneyless Man . . . Henry T. Stanton 491 

O ! May I Join the Choir Invisible George Eliot 491 

The Modern Belle Anonymous 492 

Aunt Tabitha .... Oliver Wendell Holmes 492 

Providence Anonymous 493 

Rhymes of the Months . . . .Clark Jillson 493 

Beautiful Snow ..... James W. Watson 496 

Every Year Albert Bike 496 

The Winged Worshipers . . Charles Sprague 497 

Night and Death . . . Joseph Blanco White 497 

Fortitude , . Edward Young 49S 

Our Mother Tongue J. G. Lyons 499 

The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls Moore 500 

The Vagabonds . . John Townsend Trowbridge 500 

Universal Prayer Alexander Pope 501 

The College Regatta . Oliver Wendell Holmes 502 

Evening Sir Walter Scott 502 

Children's Thankfulness .... John Keble 503 

Norval John Home 504 

My Creed Theodore Tilton 504 

O Sweet Wild Roses . Bichard Watson Gilder 504 

To a Bereaved Mother . . John Quincy Adams 505 

The Pauper's Drive ....... John Noel 505 

Light Francis W. Bourdillon 505 

Maud Muller .... John Greenleaf Whittier 506 

Death the Leveler James Shirley SOS 

Cato's Soliloquy on Immortality Joseph Addison 50S 

I'm Growing Old .... John Godfrey Saxe 508 

The Soldier's Dream . . . Thomas Campbell 509 

Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt 509 

To My Mother .... Arthur Henry Hallam 509 

Atheist and Acorn Anne, Countess of Wincheisea 510 

Buena Vista Albert Pike 511 

Even-Tide Mrs. J. M. Winton 512 

Blindness John Milton 514 

The Plaidie ........ Charles Sibley 514 

Vertue George Herbert 514 

The Daisy Geoffrey Chaucer 514 

Places of Worship . . . William Wordsworth 515 

The Beacon-Light Julia Pardoe 515 

God's-Acre . . Henry Wadsioorth Longfellow' 516 

Daniel Gray .... Josiah Gilbert Holland 517 

"I Hold Still" From the German 517 

The Battle of Blenheim . . . Bobert Southey 51 S 

Jenny Kissed Me Leigh Hunt 518 

A-Huuting We Will Go . . . Henry Fielding 519 

How's My Boy Sydney Dobell 519 

The Hills Were Made for Freedom W. G. Brown 520 

A Christmas Hymn Alfred Domett 521 

Look Aloft .... Jonathan Lawrence, Jr. 521 

Faith Frances Anne Kemble 521 

Counsel to a Friend . . William Shakespeare 522 

Books Bobert Leighton 522 


The Cotter's Saturday Night 17 

' Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, j lg 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale " j ". 

' They round the ingle form a circle wide " 19 

' The priest-like father reads the sacred page" ... 20 

1 The parent pair their secret homage pay" 21 

' The raven's clamorous nest " 22 

A Country Home 23 

' I am seven times one to-day " 24 

' I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover " . . 25 

' Let me bleed! Oh, let me alone" 26 

The Old Oaken Bucket 28 

' One 'mid the forests of the West, j ... 29 
By a dark stream is laid " ( 

Boy and Lamb 33 

Joys of Home , 35 

Christmas Stockings 36 

' The little hand outside her muff— j 37 
To keep it warm I had to hold it " j ' 

' There is a garden in her face " 40 

" That flutt'ring sail j ^ 2 
Is spread to waft me far from thee " \ 

' Rock me to sleep, mother " 44 

' Thy towers. Bombay, gleam bright, they say, j 47 
Across the dark blue sea " S 

' Sweet hand v that, held in mine " 4S 

' Stone walls do not a prison make, > 51 
Nor iron bars a cage " ( 

The Milking Maid 54 

' Silver sails all out of the west, j 5 q 
Under the silver moon " ! ' ' ' 

' Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove" . . 61 

' We sat in the hush of summer eves " 63 

' I saw her pace, with quiet grace, ) 6 g 
The shaded path along" ( 

' For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn" ... 70 

' Close by the window young Eileen is spinning" . . 72 

1 Lay on my neck thy tiny hand " 73 

' How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills" ... 71 

The Lily-Pond 75 

' The groves were God's first temples" 77 


" A grove of large extent, hard by a castle huge " . . 79 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter SO 

" Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm" . . 80 

" By brooks and groves, in hollow r whispering gales " . 81 

" Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined" .... 81 

" With clouds and storms } ^ 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled ",5 ' 

" Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound " . . . . 82 

" Since God is ever present, ever felt" S3 

" Dark-heaving, boundless, endless and sublime " . . S4 

Fawn among Roses . 85 

The Shepherd S6 

" Sweet voices in the woods, ) ^ 7 

And reed- like echoes, that have long been mute" ( " "' 

" Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall { ~^ 

Makes melody" j ■ • sb 

" It is a beauteous evening, calm and free " S9 

" On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc!" 90 

The Barn Owl . . . 92 

Before the Rain 93 

After the Rain 94 

" I seek the coolest sheltered seat " 9"» 

" Quickly before me runs the quail " 96 

Mount of the Holy Cross " 97 

The Heath-Cock 99 

" Upon that heath, in birchen bower " 103 

The Turtle-Dove 101 

The Rainbow 102 

The Waterfowl 103 

11 From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood ) -,,,, 
The merle and the mavis are peeping " i ' ' 

" The tawny eagle seats his callow brood " ..... 105 

Ram Reflected in the Water 106 

The Squirrel-Hunt 107 

Summer Woods 10S 

The Goldfinch 109 

The Squirrel 110 

The Thrush's Nest HI 

The Dying Stag 112 




The Swan 113 

The Pheasant 114 

The Blackbird 114 

Lambs at Play 115 

The Hare 116 

The Wild Deer 118 

The Heath-Chats 119 

The Swallow 120 

Snow-Flakes 121 

The Dog and the Water-Lily 122 

' Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast ) ™ 
shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest " j ' ' 

' Shall think of childhood's careless day " 124 

' In every season fresh and fair " 125 

( Though the snow is falling fast, ) -.ofi 

Specking o'er his coat with white "5 

' And birds sit brooding in the snow " 127 

March 128 

' Poor little foal of an oppressed race " 129 

The First Day of Spring 130 

' I move the sweet forget-me nots j ,q. 

That grow for happy lovers " j 

' I chatter over stony ways " 132 

' Still is the toiling hand of care; I .„„ 

The panting herds repose" j 

A Winter Morning 134 

' The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves " . 135 

Initial — Wintry Weather 135 

May-Day 136 

The Nightingale 137 

The Tiger 138 

The Eagle 139 

A Summer Morn 140 

•' Cheviot's mountains lone " 141 

' As in solitude and shade I wander ) -..„ 

Through the green aisles " j 

' Now is the high-tide of the year" 144 

1 1 in these flowery medes would be " 146 

' Loiter long days near Shawford Brook " 146 

Leven Water 147 

The Sheep Pasture 148 

The Aged Oak 149 

Woods in Winter 150 

Solitude of the Sea 151 

' A pillage for the birds " 152 

' The castled crag of Drachenfels ) 15 o 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine " ) ■ " 

The Mountain Oak ' 154 

' blissful valley, nestling cool and fair " 155 

' The squirrel — that quaint, sylvan harlequin " ... 156 

' Oft have I walked these woodland paths" 157 

Winter 158 

' Grizzly " 160 

' The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves " ... 162 

' The panting cattle in the river stand" 163 

' On the bosom of the still lagoon" 16i 

September 165 

Flowers 166 


' The hollow winds begin to blow " 167 

' Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow " 168 

The River Rhine 169 

March 170 

The Shaded Water 171 

1 The gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array " 172 

' Ships in the calm seem anchored " 173 

' The petrel, in the troubled way, j ,„„ 

Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray " j ■ • la 

' Their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge" 174 

' Roughening their crests " 176 

Giraffes 177 

The Nile 178 

'It Snows" 179 

Sunrise at Sea 180 

Table Mountain, Cape of Good Hope 181 

4 To climb the trackless mountains all unseen. ) -.^ 

With the wild flock that never needs a fold " \ ' " b " 

' When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, j -,„„ 

Calls for the lily-wristed morn " j ... rod 

Sheep at Pasture 184 

' Around my ivied porch shall spring 1 .„_ 
Each fragrant flower that drinks th« dew " $ •' ' * 

The Homestead 186 

1 His head in manhood's prime, j .„_ 

Is growing white as the winter's rime " ] ' 

Sunday in the Fields 188 

Blossom-Time . 1S9 

' By some shady grove, far from the clamorous world" 190 

The Ploughman 192 

' To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair " 193 

Country Life 194 

' Down on the Merrimac River " 196 

The Cornfield 197 

The Mowers 198 

When the Cows come Home 199 

' Come to the sunset-tree " 200 

' I sit here by the stream in lull content" 201 

The Old House 202 

Rural Nature 203 

' For pigs, and ducks, and turkeys throng the door " . 204 

* Homeward, his daily labors done, ) „ nR 

The stalwart farmer slowly plods" i 

Robert of Lincoln 208 

1 An old log cabin I think of, j „„ 

On the banks of the Tennessee " \ 

Summer Woods 211 

The Village Boy 212 

The Barefoot Boy 213 

' The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields " . . . . 215 

' White Dobbin through the stable doors I 21fi 

Shows his round shape " J 

The House on the Hill 218 

' The cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp " . 219 

Tail-Piece 220 

Death of Abercrombie 233 

Kearney at Seven Pines 243 

Stonewall Jackson's Way 247 

The bayonet shall be our spit" 252 



' We'll take, content, the roasting ear" 253 

" Brothers of the heart are we " 254 

Loss of the "Atlantic " 255 

The Wind in a Frolic , 257 

In the Blaine Woods 258 

A Mountain Lake 259 

Denizens of the Forest 259 

The Rustic Bridge 262 

Noon in Midsummer 263 

The Sea in Calm 264 

" The bald old eagle j „„_ 

On gray Beth-peor's height" j 

The Old Village Choir 267 

The Old Home • 26S 

The New England School 270 

The Lake at Sunset 271 

" The fence was lost, and the wall of stone j „„ 

The windows blocked, and the well-curb gone" J ' ' 

" The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, I „ 7 „ 
And his beautiful Morgan brown " i 

" They ran through the streets of the seaport town " . 275 

" O blithely shines the bonny sun ) „„■ 

Upon the Isle of May " j m 

The Burning of Chicago 280 

A Northern Winter 281 

The Shipwrecked Sailors '. 284 

Robbing the Nest 287 

The Old Mill 290 

" Up mounts the glorious sun" 293 

" Her sails are draggled in the brine \ Q q, 

That gladdened late the skies " j 

The Heron 295 

" Glad if the full-orbed moon salute his eyes" . . . 300 

The River Wye 301 

The swan, on still Saint Mary's lake j . „„,. 

Float double, swan and shadow" \ 

" Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth " 308 

The Inchcape Rock ■ 309 

" That lone hulk stands i „, n 

Embedded in thy yellow sands " ( iw 

" Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes " .... 312 

Columbus 313 

The Country Churchyard 321 

" The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea" .... 322 

" Drowsy tinklings lull the distant fold " 322 

' Children run to lisp their sire's return " 323 

" Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield" 323 

"How jocund did they drive their team afield" ... 324 

■■ Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast" 324 

" Wade through slaughter to a throne " 325 

" Muttering his wayward fancies would he rove "... 326 

"Approach and read— for thou canst read — the lay" . 326 

" I remember, I remember ) 

The house where I was born " ( * z ° 

" Too late I stayed — forgive the crime" 329 

" Night is the time for toil, j 

To plough the classic field" j S6U 

" Night is the time to watch ( „„ 

O'er ocean's dark expanse " j 66L 


" Break, break, break, I „„ 

On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea!" ) ° 

" The splendor falls on castle walls " 333 

" Gnarled oaks olden, dark with the mistletoe "... 334 

" Free as the winds that blow " 335 

" From the fields the reapers sing " 336 

The Water-Mill 337 

The Two Weavers 338 

" Betrothed lovers walk in sight J 3 « n 
Of my lone ..monument " \ ' ' 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School 341 

" Yonder a man at the heavens is staring" 342 

" Over the flowery lawn, maids are at play " 343 

" With treasured tales and legendary lore" 344 

" The mouldering gateway strews the grass grown court" 345 

" Play, happy child" 347 

" Ton fadeless forests in their Titan grace " 348' 

The Nightingale 349 

" Full knee -deep lies the winter snow" 350 

The Library 352 

" That old familiar tree " ' 353 

*' It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore " . . 354 

The River 355 

" The dog had watched about the spot " 356 

" The little bird on tireless wing " 358 

" Ye distant spires, ye antique towers I „rq 

That crown the watery glade " j 

" Go where the water glideth gently ever'- 361 

" I saw two clouds at morning " 363 

" So here upon the grass I lie at ease " 365 

" The trees under which we had strayed" 366 

" The river all quiet and bright " 367 

" So men must lie down too" 36S 

" The lighthouse with its wakeful eye " 370 

" The face of the ocean is dim and pale" 371 

" When stars are in the quiet skies "........ 372 

" Do you ask what the birds say " 373 

Alone by the Hearth 374 

" A dreary sea now flows between " 377 

" O stream, descending to the sea " . 378 

" Over the river, on the hill, j „„„ 

Lietha village white and still" ( c " y 

" Over the river, under the hill, j ■ „n n 

Another village lieth still " j oou 

" We read the names unknown " 381 

The Churchyard 382 

" The naked woods, and meadows brown and sear " . . 383 

" Call the cattle home, across the Sands of Dee "... 381 

" They rowed her in across the rolling foam" . . . . 3S4 

" Her grave beside the sea " 3S4 

" The cottage was a thatched one " 387 

" Where we sat side by side " 38S 

" 'Tis but a step down yonder lane " 389 

" Pity the sorrows of a poor old man " 392 

" A woman sat in unwomanly rags, j one 
Plying her needle and thread " j ■ ■ ■ 

" Somebody's darling slumbers here " 397 

" Ly stil, nry darlinge, sleipe awhile" 401 




" And fed them froni my baby's dimpled hand "... 405 

" The wife who girds her husband's sword, ) aqc 
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder " ( 

" By the wayside on a mossy stone, j ^q 
Sat a. hoary pilgrim, sadly musing " \ ' ' 

" There's the mill that ground our yellow grain" . . . 411 

" Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable " . . 412 

" In grief she walks alone, by every garden bed" . . . 414 

" Bring flowers of early spring, ) , , fi 

To deek each soldier's grave " \ 

" A basket <jn one tender arm j ... 

Contained her precious store " \ 

" A widow, with new grief made wild " 418 

The Blind Man 419 

" I thought of Chatterton, the marvelous boy, j , , 
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride " \ ' ' 

■' Touch me once more, my father" 422 

" Looking on the happy Autumn fields j .„, 

And thinking of the days that are no more" ( " " ' 

Hannah Binding Shoes" 42B 

The Little Mourner 426 

The Outcast 429 

Tail-Piece 430 

" Once the welcome light has broken, who shall say / ,.,. 
What the unimagined glories of the day " i 

" The moon doth with delight, ) ... 

Look round her when the heavens are bare " ( ' " 

" Down in the harbor the ships lie moored" ..... 467 

The Jolly Old Pedagogue 46S 

The Toper 470 

" The moon takes up the wondrous tale " 471 

The Negro Revival 472 

The Old Shepherd's Dog 473 

" Out befo' de cabins all de darkies sat " 475 

The Grave 476 

" On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, ( , 7 - 

Shall gently molder into thee " J 

The Miser . . . 47S 

William Tell among the Mountains 479 

" Farewell to the mountains,' high covered with snow " 480 

" Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell " 433 

" Down the glen, beyond the castle, I ^o. 

Where the Linn's swift waters shine " i ' 


' Now I lay me down to sleep " 4S5 

' Tes, I answered you last night; } . , sr 

No, this morning, sir, I say " ) 

'The old three-cornered hat, j ... 

And the breeches and all that " ( 

Old Oak . . . 437 

' The sweetest time of all my life, ) ,„ , 

To deem in thinking spent " \ 

The Sea-Bird 439 

The Modern Belle 492 

Aunt Tabitha ■ 492 

' Gives one a kiss, another an embrace " 493 

The Seasons . 493 

' The earth is set with many a gem " 494 

' Polished scythe and sickle gleam " 491 

' Earth and sky seem cold and drear " 493 

Fortitude 498 

' Far as Orkney's breakers roar " 499 

' Meteor lights flame in an Arctic sky " 499 

The College Regatta 602 

' Now to their mates the wild swans row " 502 

Children's Thankfulness 503 

' Maud Muller, on a summer's day, ) „.. 

Raked the meadow sweet with hay " ( 

' And the young girl mused beside the well" C07 

" The little spring brook fall, ) - n7 

Over the roadside, through the wall " 1 ou ' 

The Atheist and the Acorn 510 

Buena Vista 511 

' Birds most musical at close of day " 512 

Evening 513 

' Sweet day, so calm, so cool, so bright " 514 

Village Worshippers 5'j 

The Beacon-Light 516 

God's Acre 516 

1 Jenny kissed me when we met " CIS 

• A- hunting we will go " 519 

' How's my boy?" 519 

1 Gathered the hero-band" 520 

Books 522 


Our life is mystic, unfathomable — open to manifold subtle influences which help to 
make or mar us. Who needs be told that we are embosomed in Immensity, when 
beneath the nightly heavens the eye is greeted by the light of stars, which, not- 
withstanding the speed of its flight (nearly two hundred thousand miles a second), has 
been journeying for ages from its source to reach our planet. If sunrise could be 
witnessed but once a year, who would be abed on the morning of that more than 
imperial pageant; yet is the splendor less, because almost every day it streams 
along the sky? In our impatience of the commonplace, in eager search of beauty 
and inspiration, we cross the sea to Britain, France, or Italy, and come back no 
richer than we went, because the beauty and inspiration must go with us or we shall 
not find them anywhere. 

The fault of spiritual poveity is in ourselves, not in our surroundings. The 
heavens by night or day are as beautiful, grand and sacred over the humblest home 
in America as over the greatest gallery or cathedral in Europe; and he who cannot 
find the treasures of life here, will discover no treasures there. 

Doorways to the infinite knowledge, glory and blessedness of the universe are 
near the path of every " traveller betwixt life and death" — the humblest as well as 
the highest; the latchstring is always on the outside, and whoso wills it may enter 
and find riches, "where moth and rust do not corrupt, nor thieves break through and 

At school or college, at the handles of the plow, or with a hoe in the fist, at 
the carpenter's bench, on the bricklayer's scaffold, in the blacksmith's shop, behind 
the tradesman's counter, in the merchant's office, in the wife's and mother's round 
of ceaseless toil and care, wherever our appointed task is to be done — and w T oe to 
him who has not found his task, or shrinks from doing it — there must the secrets 
of the world be learned and the power gained, by use of which we enter into and 
possess the estate of the soul. 

Few in this land are so bereft, so desolate, that visions of ineffable beauty, 

messages from a world above matter, are denied to them ; but the eye must be 

clarified to see the vision, the ear opened to hear the beatific tidings. 



" While this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close us in," and while 

custom lies upon us with a weight heavy as frost, and deep almost as life, it is 

hard for us to behold 

"The light that never was on land or sea, 
The consecration and the poet's dream:" 
To hear " the harmony that is in immortal souls." 

We are so immersed in the life of the senses, so cheated by the shows of 
things, occupied by greetings in the market-place, trifles in the street, fashions of 
dress, the cut of a coat, the mode of a bonnet, the glitter of a brooch, the 
costume of a dude or belle; we give such time and attention to gossip of news- 
papers and society, that the eye becomes dull and we see not, the ear heavy and 
we hear not, and the soul forgets its nobleness — is defrauded of its heritage. 

We delude ourselves that happiness is to be found, and only found, at the 
winning-post of life's race; that he alone can have it who gains the wager of the 
contest, is greeted by the applause of the onlooking throng, crowned with gilt or 
gold by the judges at the stand; — and so our life is heated, eager, passionate, 
spectacular. We like the haste and din of crowds, the shuffle of feet and clap- 
pine of hands; the ear loses its sense of harmony, and noise becomes music; the 
eye its discretion, and we mistake paste for diamonds, and fancy that gas-light is 
better than sunshine. 

" The world is too much with us, late and soon: 
Getting and spending we lay waste our powers." 

God deals with us as with sons, and the blows of affliction fall, not to punish, 
but correct. There is a vacant chair in every home ; there are few hearts that have 
not known the discipline of sorrow; each one hath its own grief with which no 
stranger intermeddles. Silence and solitude are appointed to us for seasons, that they 
may do what the bustle and the crowd cannot; and they bid us open our minds and 
hearts to the ministry of healing, the consolation of higher influences, and persuade us 
that while on one side we are of the earth earthy, the children of Adam, the man of 
the red clay, on the other we are His brethren who is the Lord from Heaven. Religion, 
philosophy, science, the arts and letters, are friendly guides to lead us away from the 
dissipations and deceptions of the world, from the deceit and allurements of our own 
hearts to the palace of the Great King in whose courts and gardens we may find 
health, sanity, strength, and so come back to the working-day world as giants refreshed 
with new wine. 

What power is found in books ! A well-chosen library, though small and 
inexpensive, may introduce us to the best company the world has known, bring us 
upon terms of intimacy with the kingly spirits of our race, admit us to their confidence 
so that they tell us the secrets of their hearts, show us the weapons with which they 


conquered the world and themselves, breathe upon us the spirit of their courage, 
enthusiasm, faith, hope and love; teach us the secret of their nobleness, heroism, 
divinity, until in the wrapt communion we grow into their manners, aims, achieve- 
ments, and make them our own. 

The value of a book depends upon the use we make of it; it is little worth 
except to the good reader. If its true office be performed for us we must eat, drink, 
digest, assimilate it so that its nourishment becomes a part of our own being, recruiting 
our life with its intelligence, wisdom, inspiration. 

When books were rare and costly, chained to columns in monasteries, borrowed 
with pledges that might have been the ransom of princes, men studied, devoured them, 
and so appropriated their virtue. Now, when books may be bought for a song, when 
Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe, Wordsworth, may be had for the asking, we glance 
at, caress with compliments and pass them by as fish swim among pearls and know not 
of their value. 

When Gen. Jackson, as President of the United States, gave year by year the 
series of state dinners at the White House, while his distinguished guests banqueted upon 
the countless dishes and courses, surfeiting their stomachs, addling their brains with the 
dainties and wines of an English dinner, the sturdy old host stuck to the simple fare, 
with the dessert of mush and milk, to which he had been used at the "Hermitage," 
and so kept his head and will, as well as stomach, inviolate; his guests departing with 
indigestion, often unable to recognize their own homes on reaching them. 

Our intellectual feasts are in many courses, with wines of many vintages — liqueurs, 
cognac, absinthe, added: what wonder, then, that" there is so much literary dyspepsia, 
apoplexy and paralysis? A wise man once said of an omniverous reader, "He read so 
much he came at last to know nothing." "A good book," said Milton, " is the precious 
life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond 
life:" and he who by devout and constant reading of a few such will realize in his spirit 
all that is claimed for the transfusion of blood in the veins ; recover him from disease, 
make the shrunken frame dilate, cause the languid eye and pallid cheek to glow and 
sparkle with the health of immortal youth, lend the voice the music and accents of 
courage and joy. Through well-chosen books we become heirs of the ages, and when 
the pencil of the artist and burin of the engraver embody in living form the writer's 
thought, we have the presence and the glory of a sacrament — "an outward and visible 
form of an inward and spiritual grace." What pains and expense we are at, what 
dresses don, and ordeals undergo to gain access to the drawing-rooms of the great, 
to be presented to princes, to bow and curtsey to kings and queens, and, after all our 
toil and trouble, often feel in coming away that we have only looked at blocks with 
wigs on them. We sigh or struggle for invitations to balls and parties, and then learn to 
our cost that pates, terrapin and champagne apologize to the stomach for the absence of 


wit and wisdom we hoped to find; and that the proper legend for the entertainment 
would be, "Panorama of a caravan wandering through the Desert of Sahara." But 
good books never cheat us thus: they are "a perpetual feast where no crude surfeit 
reigns;" not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, but musical as is Apollo's lute " 
We can apply to them with justice Wordsworth's lines on the Ministry of Nature: 

" Oft, ill lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart: 

And passing even into my purer mind, 

With tranquil restoration; feelings too 

Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, 

As have no slight or trivial influence 

On that best portion of a good man's life, 

His little, nameless, unremembered acts 

Of kindness and of love: nor le-s, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift, 

Of aspect more sublime : that blessed mood, 

In which the burthen of the mystery, 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 

Of all this unintelligible world 

Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 

In which the affectious gently lead us on — 

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a living soul: 

While with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 

We see into the life of things." 

Homer's Iliad wrought itself into the soul of Alexander, and became the 
brain and sword with which he conquered the world. A young man walking one 
day on the river's bank saw something floating in the current, drew it ashore, found 
it to be a parchment Bible which had been thrown into the flood by command of 
the apostate Emperor Julian. The youth dried the volume, read it until its contents 
took possession of him, winning him from the study of Greek Philosophy, and he 
became the "Golden-mouthed" John of Antioch, afterwards Archbishop of Constan- 
tinople, known to the world as St. John Chrysostom, the most powerful preacher 
the East has known since the days of St. Paul. A young African, who had run 
a course of intellectual and animal excess, paced to and fro, one pleasant summer 
afternoon, in a Eoman garden, and heard a child in the next garden reading aloud; 
he paused to listen, heard words which took hold of his conscience and heart, for 
they were words of the Holy Scriptures. He got the book and studied it, find 


became the most renowned Doctor and Father of the Christian Church — St. Auo-us- 
tine. But why multiply instances of the power of books. 

In presenting you this volume, the publishers have spared neither pains nor 
expense to make it as nearly pet'fect as a volume of the kind can be. 

The admirable selection from the writers of our tongue, ranges from Chaucer, 
Spenser and Shakespeare, to our own Hayne, Aldrich and Gilder, and includes 
pieces well known as household words, and others not easily reached except in 
these pages. 

Of the illustrations a blind man is not competent to speak, but I doubt not 
the}' are most excellent, and will help to convey and impress the meaning of the 

If the men and women, young or old, into whose hands this book may come, 
will "read, mark, learn and inwardly digest" its contents until each day "mem- 
ory have its fraught," they will find it a treasure beyond price, attuning the ear 
to the melodies of our noble speech, refining the taste, purging the eye to behold 
the things most real but invisible to mortal sense, informing the mind with "thoughts 
that wander through eternity," and storing the recollection with truths and images 
which cannot die; making them to hear 

" Oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue, and they may feel 
A presence that disturbs them with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things." 

Sir Eichard Steele's famous compliment may have a new application when 1 
say, to have it will be a liberal education. 


Washington, April, 1SS6. 


' Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through, 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee." 


§§jf|Y loved, my honoured, much respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard this homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there I 
praise : ween. 

2 17 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The shortening winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating f rae the pleugh ; 

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ea' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 

" 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale.' 3 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 

The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee, 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 

Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown 
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 



Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift- winged, unnoticed fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years, 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought *in vain that sought the 
aright! " 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 


"They round the ingle form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 
The big ha' -Bible, ance his father's pride." 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 

An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, 
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play: 

41 An', O, be sure to fear the Lord alway, 
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! 

The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 

Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 
While Jenny hafnins is afraid to speak ; 

Weel pleased the mother hears, it 's nae wild worth- 
less rake. 



Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye , 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave, 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; 
"Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction 

"The priest-like father reads the sacred page." 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare : 
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'T is when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents'the evening 

But now the supper crowns the simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: 
The soup their only hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ■ 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her well-hained kebbuck fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 't was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 



The cheerfu' suppei"done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-Bihle, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn 

Or noble "Elgin " beets the heavenward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy^lays : 

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 

Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 

Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 

" The parent pair their secret homage pay. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures 

Or plaintive "Martyrs," worth}' of the name; 

Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the seeond name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; 
How His first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How He, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced 
Heaven's command. 


There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 

Together hymniug their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 
. Devotion's every grace, except the heart I 

' He who stills the raven's clamorous nest.' 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
The saint, the husband, and the father 
prays : 

Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 

The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 

But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; 

And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 



Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's elamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair, in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the hest, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That make her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are hut the breath of kings ; 

" An honest man 's the noblest work of God : " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my wannest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 
And, O, maj r Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved 

O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart; 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward! 
O never, never Scotia's realm desert; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! 

Robert Burns. 


RKBuiii me say to parents : Make the home-life beautiful, without and within, and 
J^4i they will sow the seeds of gentleness, true kindness, honesty and fidelity, 
f in the hearts of their children, from which the children reap a harvest 
of happiness and virtue. The memory of the beautiful and happy home of childhood 
is the richest legacy any man can leave to his children. The heart will never forget 
its hallowed influences. It will be an evening enjoyment, to which the lapse of years 
will only add new sweetness. Such a home is a constant inspiration for good, and as 
constant a restraint from evil. 

If by taste and culture we adorn our homes 
and grounds and add to their charms, our 
children will find the quiet pleasures of rural 
homes more attractive than the whirl of city 
life. Such attractions and enjoyments will 
invest home-life, school-life, the whole future 
of life with new interests and with new dignity 
and joyousness, for life is just what we make 
it. We may by our blindness live in a world 
of darkness and gloom, or in a world full of 
sunlight and beauty and joy ; for the world 

without only reflects the world within. Also, the a country Home. 

tasteful improvement of grounds and home exerts a good influence not only upon the 
inmates, but upon the community. An elegant dwelling, surrounded by sylvan attractions, 
is a contribution to the refinement, the good order, the taste and prosperity of every 
community, improving the public taste and ministering to every enjoyment. 

B. G. NoeTheup. 






|Y|YHERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
jiA^ There's no rain left in heaven. 
■XT *' ve sa ^ m y " seven times" over and over — 
TfT Seven times one are seven. 

I am old — so old I can write a letter; 

My birthday lessons are done. 
The lambs play always — they know no better ; 

They are only one times one. 

I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, 
And shine again in your place. 

O velvet Bee ! you're a dusty fellow— 

You've powdered your legs with gold. 

O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold 1 

O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

'I am seven times one to-day." 

O Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 

And shining so round and low. 
You were bright— ah, bright— but your light is failing ; 

You are nothing now but a bow. 

O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it — ■ 
I will not steal them away ; 
You Moon ! have you done something wrong in heaven, I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet I 
That God has hidden your face? I am seven times one to-day. 




" ISBgOU bells iu the steeple, riug, ring out your changes 
How many soever they be, 
1 And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 
Come over, come over to me. 

Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling- 
No magical sense conveys, 

And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 
The fortune of future days. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover. 
While dear hands are laid on my head ; 

" The child is a woman, the book may close 
For all the lessons are said." 

I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, 

Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O bring it I 

Such as I wish it to be. 

1 1 leaned out of window, t smelt the white clover 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate." 

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, 

While a boy listened alone ; 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over, 

And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: 

You leave the story to me. 

The fox-glove shoots out of the green matted heather, 

Preparing her hoods of snow; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : 

O children take long to grow. 

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, 

Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And I could grow on like the fox-glove and aster, 

For some things arc ill to wait. 




LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
" Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 
lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 
For my love he is late ! 

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : 
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? 
Let the star-clusters glow, 
Let the sweet waters flow, 
And cross quickly to me. 



"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway discover 
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. 
Ahj my sailor, make haste, 
For the time runs to waste, 
And my love lieth deep — 

" Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 
By the sycamore passed he, and through the white 
clover ; 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; 
But I'll love him more, more 
Thau e'er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 

For children wake, though fathers sleep, 
With a stone at foot and at head; 

sleepless God! forever keep, 
Keep both living and dead ! 

1 lift mine eyes, and what to see, 
But a world happy and fair ; 

I have not wished it to mourn with me, 
Comfort is not there. 

O what anear but golden brooms ! 

And a waste of reedy rills ; 
O what afar but the tine glooms 

On the rare blue hills ! 


e iiS £ ' 

(ivV'EIGH-HO! daisies and buttercups, 

i**, Fair Yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 

Tfy&i When the wind wakes how they rock in the 

j| grasses, 

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! 

Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own 


Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho ! daises and buttercups ! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, 
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full 
fain ; 
Sing, "Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but 
narrow," — 
Sing once and sing it again. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. 
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters, 
Maybe he thinks on you now ! 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — 
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall 
Send down on their pleasure-smiles passing its meas- 
God that is over us all ! 


' Let me bleed ! Oh, let me alone." 

I shall not die, but live forlore — 
How bitter it is to part ! 

to meet thee, my love, once more! — 
O my heart, my heart ! 

No more to hear, no more to see ! 

that an echo might awake 

And waft one note of thy psalm to me, 
Ere my heart-strings break! 

1 should know it how faint so e'er, 
And with angel voices blent; 

O once to feel thy spirit anear, 

1 could be content ! 

SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan, 

Before I am well awake ; 
"Let me bleed! Oh, let me alone, 

Since I must not break! " 

O once between the gates of gold, 
While an angel entering trod ; 

But once — thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God. 




jYTY^O bear, to nurse, to rear, 
Jft To watch, and then to lose : 
■p^g* To see my bright ones disappear, 
J f f L Drawn up like morning dews ; — 

1 1 To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done when God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thy lord depart 
In tears that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart.- 
To hear, to heed, to wed, 

This whilst thou didst I smiled, 
For now it was not God who said, 

"Mother, give me thy child." 

O fond, O fool, and blind, 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But, when a man like grace would find, 

My soul put by her fears. 
O fond, O fool, and blind, 

God guards in happier spheres; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for unknown years. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

Fair lot that maidens choose, 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 

Thy face no more she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear, 

She doth in naught accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love — and then to lose. 


A Sonsr of a Boat. 

|HERE was once a boat on a billow : 
Lightly she rocked to her port remote, 
'", ? And the foam was white in her wake like 



J4, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze 
would blow, 
And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtseying over the billow, 
I marked her course till a dancing mote, 
She faded out on the moonlit fpam, 

And I stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about the boat, 
And nry dreams upon the pillow. 

I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — 
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she bore, 

On the open desolate sea ; 
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, 

For he came not back to me — 

Ah, me ! 


A Sons; of a Nest. 

|HERE was once a nest in a hollow, 

Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, 

ago ° * ' 

|Ssi Soft and warm and full to the brim ; 

Vetches leaned over it purple and dim; 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestf ul, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 

That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own — 

Ah, happy, happy I ! 
Right dearly I loved them; but when they were 

They spread out their wings to fly. 
Oh, one after one they flew away, 

Far up to the heavenlj' blue, 
To the better country, the upper day; 

And — I wish I was going, too. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all its hope hath failed? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 

And the land where my nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts are sent, 

The only home for me — 

Ah, me ! 

Jean Ingelow. 





|OW dear to my heart are the scenes of rny child- 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! — 
r The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
s' wood, 

I And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 

How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell! 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 

' The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it; 
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well— 

The cot of m3' father, the dairy-house nigh it; 

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well— 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure— 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 

Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well ! 

Samuel Woodworth. 




JHEY grew in beauty side by side, 
They tilled one home with glee ; 
Their graves are severed far and wide 
By mount, aud stream, and sea. 
) The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow; 
She had each folded flower in sight — 
Where are those dreamers now? 

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapped his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 
And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; 
She faded 'mid Italian flowers, 

The last of that bright band. 

" One 'mid the forest of the West, 
By a dark stream is laid ; 

The Indian knows his place of rest, 
Far in the cedar shade." 

One 'mid the forests of the West, 
By a dark stream is laid ; 

The Indian knows his place of rest, 
Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- 
He lies where pearls lie deep ; 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

And, parted thus, they rest who played 

Beneath the same green tree, 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent-knee ! 
They that with smiles lit up the hall, 

And cheered with song the hearth ■ 
Alas for love, if thou wert all, 

Aud naught beyond, O Earth ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 




f HERE'S a little low hut by the river's side, 
Within the sound of its rippling tide ; 
Its walls are grey with the mosses of years, 
And its roof all crumbled and old appears; 
But fairer to me than castle's pride 
Is the little low hut by the river's side ! 

The little low hut was my natal rest, 

When my childhood passed — Life's springtime blest; 

Where the hopes of ardent youth were formed, 

And the sun of promise my young heart warmed, 

Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide, 

And left the dear hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut, in lowly guise. 
Was soft and grand to my j'outhful eyes, 
And fairer trees were ne'er known before, 
Than the apple-trees by the humble door — 
That my father loved for their thrifty pride — 
That shadowed the hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut had a glad hearthstone, 
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone, 
And brothers and sisters, a merry crew, 
Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew; 
But one by one the loved ones died, 
That dwelt in the hut by the river's side. 

The father revered and the children gay 

The graves of the world have called away; 

But quietly, all alone, here sits 

By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits, 

An aged woman, long years allied 

With the little low hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut to the lonely wife 
Is the cherished stage of her active life ; 
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam, 
As she sits by the window in pensive dream 
And joys and woes roll back like a tide 
In that little low hut by the river's side. 

My mother — alone by the river's side 

She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide, 

And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call 

To meet once more with the dear ones all, 

And forms in a region beautified, 

The band that once met by the river's side. 

The dear old hut by the river's side 

With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied — 

And a glory is over its dark walls thrown, 

That statelier fabrics have never known — 

And I shall love with a fonder pride 

That little low hut by the river's side. 

B. P. Shillaber (Mrs. Partington). 


jjgHEN the humid shadows hover 
ft Over all the starry spheres, 
And the melancholy darkness 
Gently weeps in rainy tears, 
What a bliss to press the pillow 

Of a cottage-chamber bed 
And to listen to the patter 
Of the soft rain overhead! 

Every tinkle on the shingles 

Has an echo in the heart; 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy being start, 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their air-threads into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 

Now in memory comes my mother 

As she used long yeai*s agone, 
To regard the darling dreamers 

Ere she left then till the dawn; 
Oh, I see her leaning o'er me, 

As I list to this refrain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister, 

With her wings and waving hair 
And her star-eyed cherub brother 

A serene angelic pair! — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow, 

With their praise or mild reproo 
As I listen to the murmur 

Of the soft rain on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill me 

With her eyes' delicious blue; 
And I mind not, musing on her, 

That her heart was all untrue : 
I remember but to love her 

With a passion kin to pain, 
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

Art hath naught of tone or cadence 

That can work with such a spell 
In the soul's mysterious fountains, 

Whence the tears of rapture well 
As that melody of nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 

Coates Kinney. 




pFE bairnies cuddle doon at nieht, 
Wi' muckle faucht an' din' ; 
' Oh tiy and sleep, ye waukrif rogues, 

Your fej^ther's comin' in!" 
They dinna hear a word I speak; 

I try an' gie a frown, 
But aye I hap them up and cry, 
" O bairnies, cuddle doon!" 

Wee Jaimie, wi' the curly heid, 

He aye sleeps next the wa', 
Bangs up and cries, "I want a piece'" 

The rascal starts them a' ! 
I rin an' fetch them pieces — drinks — 

They stop a wee the soun', 
Then draw the blankets up and cry 

"O weanies, cuddle doon!" 

But scarce Ave minutes gang, wee Bab 

Cries out frae ueath the claes : 
"Mither, mak Tarn gie ower at ance ! 

He's kittlin wi' his taes!" 
The mischief's in that Tarn for tricks, 

He 'd baither half the toun; 
But still I hap them up and cry, 

" O bairnies, cuddle doon!" 

At length they hear their feyther's step, 

And as he nears the door 
They draw their blankets o'er their heids, 

And Tam pretinds to snore. 
"Hae a' the weans been guid?" he asks, 

As he pits off his shoon; 
" The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 

And lang since cuddled doon." 

And just afore we bed oursels 

We look at our wee lambs ; 
Tam has his airm round wee Bab's neck, 

And Bab his airm round Tarn's. 
I lift wee Jaimie up the bed, 

And as I straik each crown, 
I whisper, till my hairt Alls up, 

"O bairnies, cuddle doon!" 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 

Wi' mirth that's dear to me, 
For sure the big warl's cark an' care 

Will quaten doon their glee. 
But coom what will to ilka ane, 

May he who sits abune 
Aye whisper, tho' their pows be bald, 

" O bairnies,cuddle doon!" 

Alexander Anderson. 



AY down upon de Swanee Bibber, 

Far, far away — 
are's wha my heart is turning ebber — 

Dare's wha de old folks stay. 
All up and down de whole creation, 

Sadly I roam ; 
Still longing for de old plantation, 

And for de old folks at home. 

All de world am sad and dreary, 

Eb'rywhere I roam ; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 

Far from de old folks at home. 

All round de little farm I wandered, 
When I was young ; 

Den many happy days I squandered, 

Many de songs I sung. 
When I was playing wid my brudder, 

Happy was I ; 
Oh! take me to my kind old mudder! 

Dare let me live and die ! 

One little hut among de bushes — 

One dat I love — 
Still sadly to my memory rushes, • 

No matter where I rove. 
When will I see de bees a-humming, 

All round de comb? 
When will I hear de banjo tumming 

Down in my good old home? 

Stephen Collins Foster. 


^"Yjr^rD pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
^AT-Vi Be it ever so humble there's no place like home ! 
ymS? A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
^r Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met 
with elsewhere. 

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home' 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain : 
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! 
The birds singing gaily that came at my call — 
Give me them — and the peace of mind dearer than all ! 

Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ! 

John Howard Payne. 




jGKe kind to thy father, for when thou wast young, 
<^* ; AVho loved thee as fondly as he? 

Ml He caught the first accents that fell from thy 
foils o 

^ r tongue, 

* And joined in thine innocent glee. 
Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, 

His locks intermingled with gray, 
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and hold ; 
Thy father is passing away. 

Be kind to thy mother, for, lo ! on her hrow 

May traces of sorrow be seen : 
Oh, well may'st you cherish and comfort her now, 

For loving and kind hath she been. 
Remember thy mother, for thee will she pray 

As long as God giveth her breath ; 
AVith accents of kindness then cheer her lone way, 

E'en to the dark valley of death. 

Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth, 

If the smile of thy love be withdrawn ; 
The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth, 

If the dew of affection be gone. 
Be kjnd to thy brother, wherever you are, 

The love of a brother shall be 
An ornament, purer and richer by far, 

Than pearls from the depths of the sea. 

Be kind to thy sister, not many may know 
. The depth of true sisterly love ; 
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below 

The surface that sparkles above. 
Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet 
And blessings thy pathwa}' to crown, 
Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers, 
More precious than wealth or renown. 


f ,pHE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home; 
■ - 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; 

The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the 

"While the birds make music all the day; 
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, 

All merry, all happy, all bright; 
By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good night! 

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more 

We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
For our old Kentucky home far away. 

They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, 
On the meadow, the hill and the shore ; 

They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, 

On the bench by the old cabin door ; 
The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, 

AVith sorrow, where all was delight; 
The time has come when the darkeys have to part,. 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night! 

The head must bow, and the back will have. to bend, 

AVherever the darkey may go ; 
A few more days, and the troubles all will end, 

In the fields where the sugar-cane grow; 
A few more days to tote the weary load, 

No matter, it will never be light ; 
A few more daj r s till we totter on the road, 

Then my old Kentucky home, good night! 

Stephen Collins Fostee. 


ANY a mother gixnvs old, faded, and feeble long before her time, because her boys 
and girls are not thoughtfully considerate and helpful. When they become old 
enough to be of service in a household , mother has become so used to doing all 
herself, to taking upon her shoulders all the care, that she forgets to lay off the burden 
little by little, on those who are so Avell able to bear it. It is partly her own fault, to be 
sure, but a fault committed out of love and mistaken kindness for her children. 




|H, to be home again, home again, home again ! 
Under the apple-boughs, down by the mill ; 
?(ff- Mother is calling me, father is calling me, 
J4 Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering 
Through the green meadows and over the hill; 

Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me, . 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, once more to be home again, home again, 
Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill — 

Do you not hear how the voices are calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still? 

James Thomas Fields. 


|yP with the sun in the morning, 
Away to the garden he hies, 
£•; .a To see if the sleeping blossoms 

Have begun to open their eyes. 

Running a race with the wind, 
With a step as light and fleet, 

Under my window I hear 
The patter of little feet. 

Now to the brook he wanders, 

In swift and noiseless flight, 
Splashing the sparkling ripples 

Like a fairy water-sprite. 

No sand under fabled river 

Has gleams like his golden hair, 

No pearly sea-shell is fairer 
Than his slender ankles bare. 

Nor the rosiest stem of coral, 

That blushes in ocean's bed, 
Is sweet as the flash that follows 

Our darling's airy tread. 

From a broad window my neighbor, 

Looks down on our little cot, 
And watches the "poor man's blessing" — 

I cannot envy his lot. 

He has pictures, books, and music, 
Bright fountains, and noble trees, 

Rare store of blossoming roses, 
Birds from beyond the seas. 


But never does childish laughter 
His homeward footsteps greet; 

His stately halls ne'er echo 
To the tread of innocent feet. 

This child is our "sparkling picture," 
A birdling that chatters and sings, 

Sometimes a sleeping cherub, 
(Our other one has wings.) 

His heart is a charmed casket, 
Full of all that's cunning and sweet, 

And no harpstring holds such music 
As follows his twinkling feet. 

When the glory of sunset opens 
The highway by angels trod, 

And seems to unbar the city 
Whose builder and maker is God — 

Close to the crystal portal, 

I see by the gates of pearl, 
The eyes of our other angel — 

A twin-born little girl. 

And I ask to be taught and directed 
To guide his footsteps aright; 

So to live that I may be ready 
To walk in sandals of light — 

And hear, amid songs of welcome, 
From messengers trusty and fleet, 

On the starry floor of heaven, 
The patter of little feet. 




pHEN the day and dark are blended, 
if? And the weary tasks are ended, 
iiJlitfi Sits the little mother humming, 

Waiting sound of his dear coming, 
Who, the lord of love's domain, 
Yet to her yields all again. 

Then the winsome, wee one, nestling 
In her bosom, spies the wrestling, 
Dancing shadows rise and fall, 
Phantom-like upon the wall, 
As the flickering firelight flashes 
From among the flames and ashes. 

Loud he laughs, in baby glee. 

At their elfin revelry ; 

At the lilting, lithe, elastic, 

Airy, fairy forms fantastic, 

Now receding., now advancing, 

Coy as love from young eyes glancing. 

Not eclipse and umbrage dim, 
These are sentient things to him ; 
Wherefore, wistful welcome lending, 
Tiny hands are soon extending. 
Snatching, catching, quick and eager, 
At the shapes that him beleaguer. 

Oft he clasps them, grasps them, yet 
They but fool him, they coquet; 
Vain his striving and endeavor, 
They elude and mock him ever, 
They delude and still deceive him, 
They perplex and vex and grieve him. 

Much he wonders, ponders why 
When they beckon yet they fly, 
And the tear in his blue eye 
Shines as rain from sunny sky. 
Soon he turns — the cruel seeming 
Fades away, and he lies dreaming. 

E. Hanuafoed. 



SlEipvUSH! my dear, lie still, and slumber, 
i**6 Holy angels guard thy bed!- 
•^h Heavenly blessings without number 
; Gently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment, 
House and home thy friends provide; 

All without thy care or payment, 
All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou 'rt attended 
Than the Son of God could be, 

When from heaven he descended, 
And became a child like thee. 

Soft and easy is thy cradle : 
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay: 

When his birthplace was a stable, 
And his softest bed was hay. 

See the kinder shepherds round him, 
Telling wonders from the sky ! 

There they sought him, there they found him, 
With his virgin mother by. 

See the lovely Babe a-dressing; 

Lovely Infant, how he smiled ! 
When he wept, the mother's blessing 

Soothed and hushed the holy Child. 

Lo ! he slumbers in his manger, 

Where the horned oxen fed ; 
Peace, my darling, here 's no danger, 

Here 's no ox anear thy bed. 

Mayst thou live to know and fear him, 

Trust and love him all thy days; 
Then go dwell forever near him, 

See his face, and sing his praise ! 

I could give thee thousand kisses, 

Hoping what I most desire ; 
Not a mother's fondest wishes 

Can to greater joys aspire. 

Isaac Watts. 



'And yet a happy family 
Is but an earlier heaven. 1 



tiO^WEET are the joys of borne, 
'■! And pure as sweet; for they 

¥Like dews of morn and evening come, 
To make and close the day. 

The world hath its delights, 
And its delusions, too ; 

But home to calmer bliss invites, 
More tranquil and more true. 




|OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, 
| When we were first acquent, 
fYour locks were like the raven, 
i Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snow; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And monie a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go ; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

Robert Burns. 


gERE the stockings were swung in their red, When we braved the hare floor with our little hare 
white, and blue, feet — 

,V W V ' All fashioned to feet that were light as the No shrine to a pilgrim was ever so sweet. 

J4, dew. When each heart and each stocking was burdened 

Ah, the fragrant old faith when we watched the with bliss — 

cold gray On the verge of two worlds there is nothing like this 

Reluctantly line the dim border of day, But a mother's last smile and a lover's first kiss ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 


-,*,< ^r<5^ °$°- 

' The little hand outside her muff — 
To keep it warm I had to hold it." 

^§j8f|HE conference meeting through al last, 
■fiSb We boys around the vestry waited 
7tk$\ To see the girls come tripping past 

Like snowbirds willing to be mated. 


Not braver he that leaps the wall 
By level musket-flashes litten, 

Than I, who stepped before them all, 
Who longed to see me get the mitten. 




But no ; she blushed, and took my arm ! 

We let the old folks have the highway, 
And started toward the Maple Farm 

Along a kind of lover's by-way. 

I can't remember what we said, 

'T was nothing worth a song or story ; 

Yet that rude path by which we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming, 

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet 
Her face with youth and health was beaming. 

The little hand outside her muff — 
O sculptor, if you could but mold it! 

So lightlj r touched my jacket-cuff, 
To keep it warm I had to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone — 

'T was love and fear and triumph blended. 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 

The old folks, too, were almost home ; 

Her dimpled hand the latches lingered, 
We heard the voices nearer come, 

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 

She shook her ringlets from her hood, 
And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled, 

But yet I knew she understood 
With what a daring wish I trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overheard, 
The moon was slyly peeping through it, 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

"Come, now or never! doit! doit!" 

My lips till then had only known 

The kiss of mother and of sister, 
But somehow, full upon her own 

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her! 

Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, 

O listless woman, weary lover! 
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 

I'd give — But who can live youth over? 
Edmund Clarence Stedman. 


JTVXD on her lover's arm she leant. 

And round her waist she felt it fold ; 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old. 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the d3 r ing day, 

The happy princess followed him. 

"I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss; " 
"O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this ; " 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And streamed through many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 

" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 

"O love, thy kiss would wake the dead! " 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark ; 
And, rapt through many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

A hundred summers ! can it be? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where? 
" O seek my father's court with me, 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Through all the world she followed him. 
Alfred Tennyson. 



If IS sweet to hear, 

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 
^ The song and oar of Adria's gondolier ; 
'} By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep . 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear, 
i 'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 


'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come. 

'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, 
Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 



Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps; 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth; 
Sweet is revenge, especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 


'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, 
By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 

To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 

Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 
The tree of knowledge has been plucked — all's 
known — ■ 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. 

Lord Byron. 


VlYHERE is no. time like the old time, when you 
WSSs and I were young, 

IL 'ff^When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds 
U. of springtime sung! 

*" The garden's brightest glories by summer suns 
are nursed, 
But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that 
opened first! 

There is no place like the old place where you and I 

were born ! 
Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of 

the morn, 
From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the 

clinging arms that bore, 
Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look 

on us no more ! 

There is no friend like the old friend who has shared 

our morning days, 
No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his 

praise ; 

Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of 

But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in 

every fold. 

There is no love like the old love that we courted in 

our pride ; 
Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're 

fading side by side, 
There are blossoms all around us with the colors of 

our dawn, 
And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of 

day is gone. 

There are no times like the old times — they shall never 

be forgot! 
There is no place like the old place — keep green the 

dear old spot! 
There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven 

prolong their lives ! 
There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our 

loving wives ! 


MARY, at thy window be I 

It is the wished, the trysted hour! 
.Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor; 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
| Could I the rich reward secure — ■ 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing — 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; 

Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

I sighed, and said amang them 'a, 
"Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Robert Burns. 




§H, I remember well (and how can I 

But evermore remember well?) when first 
, Our flame began, when scarce we knew what 

s flame we felt; when as we sat and sighed, 
1 looked upon each other, and conceived 
; what we ailed, yet something we did ail, 
1 yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
1 what was our disease we could not tell, 

Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus, 
In that first garden of our simpleness, 
We spent our childhood. But when years began 
To reap the fruit of knowledge — ah, how then 
Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow, 
Check my presumption, and my forwardness ! 
Yet still would give me flowers, still would show 
What she would have me, yet not have me know. 

Samuel Daniel. 


KHERE is a garden in her face, 

Where roses and white lilies blow ; 
■ A heavenly paradise is that place, 

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; 
There cherries grow that none may buy, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do inclose 

Of orient pearl a double row, 
Which when her lovely laughter shows, 

They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow, 

Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 

All that approach with eye or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Richard Alison. 


OW do I love thee? Let me count the ways : 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of each day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 

I love thee with a love I seem to lose 

With my lost saints,— I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 




^P&WAT ! let naught to love displeasing, 
gHHH My Winifreda, move your care ; 

C ;vr i Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 


Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What though no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood, 

We '11 shine in more substantial honors, 
And, to be noble, we '11 be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender 

Will sweetly sound where 'er 'tis spoke ; 
And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
.How they respect such little folk. 

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, 
No mighty treasures we possess ; 

We '11 find, within our pittance, plenty, 
And be content without excess.- 

Still shall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason, 

And that 's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age, in love excelling, 
We 'II hand in hand together tread; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love - the pretty creatures, 
While round my knees they fondly clung ! 

To see them look their mother's features, 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 

And when with envy time transported 

Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
You '11 in your girls again be courted, 

And I '11 go wooing in nvy boys. 


; GERL, who has so many wilful ways 

She would have caused Job's patience to for- 
■^^ sake him; 

Yet is so rich in all that 's girlhood's praise, 
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, 
A little better she would surely make him. 

Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon, 
And very far from angel yet, I trow. 

Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human ; 
Yet she 's more lovable as simple woman 
Than any one diviner that I know. 

Therefore I wish that she may safely keep 

This womanhede, and change not, only grow; 
From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, 
And in perennial blessedness, still reap 
On every hand of that which she doth sow. 

Dinah Maria Mulock Ceaik. 



E fond kiss, and then we sever; 

Ae fareweel, alas, forever! 

Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee; 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love forever, 

Let still the woman take 
An elder than herself : so wears she to him, 
So sways she level in her husband's heart, 
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, 
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, 


Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas forever! 
Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee* 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! 

Kobekt Burns. 

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, 

Than women's are. 


Then let thy love be younger than thyself, 
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent. 




Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
By just exchange one to the other given; 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 

There never was a better bargain driven; 
My true-love bath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; 

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides ; 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own ; 

I cherish his because in me it bides ; 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sib Philip Sidney. 


|HE fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean ; 
The winds of heaven mix forever 

With a sweet emotion.; 
Nothing in the world is single ; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle; 

Why not I with thine. 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

H it disdained its brother. 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea ; 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


---. ; : 1 1, 



iWEETHEART, good bye ! That flut'ring sail 

Is spread to waft me far from thee ; 
And soon, before the farth'ring gale, 

My ship shall bound upon the sea. 
Perchance, all des'late and forlorn, 

These eyes shall miss thee many a year; 
But unf orgotten every charm — 

Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 

Sweetheart, good bye ! one last embrace ! 

Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever ! 
Yet in this heart's most sacred place 

Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever; 
And still shall recollection trace, 

In fancy's mirror, ever near, 
Each smile, each tear, that form, that face — 

Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 

Thomas Moore. 




OW many times do I love thee, dear? 
Tell me how many thoughts there he 
In the atmosphere 
Of a new-fallen year, 
Whose white and sahle hours appear 

The latest flake of Eternity : 
So many times do I love thee, dear. 

How many times do I love, again? 
Tell me how many beads there are 
In a silver chain 
Of the evening rain, 
Unraveled from the tumbling main, 

And threading the eye of a yellow star : 
So many times do I love, again. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 


pHEN I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 
And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I he but eerie ! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae and weary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

Robert Burns. 


||OMING through the rye, poor body, 

Coming through the rye, 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 
Jenny 's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 
Coming through the rye ; 

Gin a body kiss a body — 
Need a body cry? 

Gin a body meet a body 
Coming through the glen, 

Gin a body kiss a body- 
Need the world ken? 

Jenny 's a' wat, poor body; 
Jenny's seldom dry; 

She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 

Robert Burns. 


fflN a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 

Amang the train there is a swain 
I dearly lo'e mysel'; 

But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinua care to tell. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' frae the town, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Tet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 

Adapted from Burns. 


iARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies ; 

And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise. 

AVilliam Shakespeare. 




FAIREST of the rural maids ! 

Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
W Green houghs, and glimpses of the sky, 
1 Were all that met thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
Were ever in the sylvan wild, 
And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 

Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot impressed, 
Are not more sinless than thy breast; 
The holy peace, that Alls the air 
Of those calm solitudes, is there. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

-•-a— se^E -1 - 

'Take me again to your heart as of yore." 


|ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your 


Make me a child again, just for to-night; 

Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair, 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
Take them and give me my childhood again! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away ; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — 
Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 



Tired of the hollow, the hase, the untrue, 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed, and faded our faces between, 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — 
Bock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
ISTo love like mother-love ever has shone; 
No other worship abides and endures, — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours : 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ;- 
Bock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
Lefit drop over my forehead to-night, 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song : 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping your face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 
Eock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 

Elizabeth Akebs Allen (Florence Percy) . 



"^IjACK clouds away, and welcome day, 
j||| With night we banish sorrow : 

Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft, 
To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow; 
Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! 
To give my love good-morrow. 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
And from each bill let music shrill 
Give my fair love good-morrow! 
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 

You pretty elves, among yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 

To give my love good-morrow, 

Sing, birds, in every furrow. 

Thomas Heywood. 

-'^-i'S-E 1 - 


ftpINGEB not long! Home is not home without 

M thee; 

> Its dearest tokens only make me mourn; 
[Ob! let its memory, like a chain about thee, 
i* Gently compel and hasten thy return. 

'+ Linger not long! 

Linger not long! though crowds should woo thy 
Bethink thee, can the mirth of friends, though dear, 
Compensate for the grief thy long delaying 
Costs the sad heart that sighs to have thee here? 

Linger not long ! 

Linger not long ! How shall I watch thy coming, 
As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell — 

When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, 
And silence hangs on all things like a spell? 

Linger not long! 

How shall I watch for thee when fears grow 
As night draws dark and darker on the hill? 
How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer? 
Oh! thou art absent — art thou absent still? 

Linger not long ! 

Yet though I dream not, though the eye that seeth 
Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull, 
For oh ! I sometimes fear, when thou art with me, 
My cup of happiness is all too full ! 

Linger not long! 

Haste — haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling ; 

Haste as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! 
Haste as a skiff, when tempests wild are swelling, 

Flies to its haven of securest rest! — 

Linger not long. 




PLACE in thy memory, dearest, 

Is all that I claim, 
To pause and look back when thou hearest 

The sound of my name. 
Another may woo thee nearer, 

Another may win and wear ; 
I care not, though he be dearer, 

If I am remembered there. 

Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 

Couldst thou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee. 

But a cloud o'er my pathway is glooming, 
Which never must break upon thine, 

And Heaven, which made thee all blooming, 
Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Remember me not as a lover 

Whose fond hopes are crossed, 
Whose bosom can never recover 

The light it has lost : — 
As the young bride remembers the mother 

She loves, yet never may see, 
As a sister remembers a brother, 

Oh, dearest, remember me. 

Gerald Geiffin. 


THE days are gone when beauty bright 
My heart's chain wove ! 
1 When my dream of life, from morn till 
Was love, still love ! 
New hope may bloom, 
And days may come, 
Of milder, calmer beam, 
But there 's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream! 
O, there 's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream! 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 

When wild youth 's past; 
Though he win the wise, who frowned before, 
To smile at last; 

He '11 never meet 
A joy so sweet 

In all his noon of fame. 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame, 
And at every close she blushed to hear 

The one loved name ! 

O, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot, 

Which first love traced; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
On memory's waste ! 
'T was odor fled 
As soon as shed; 
'T was morning's winged dream; 
'T was a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream! 
O, 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again 
On life's dull stream! 

Thomas Mooee. 


fOVE is enough. Let us not seek for gold. 

Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and 
selfishness ; 
ill In those serene, Arcadian days of old, 
Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress. 
The gods who dwelt in fair Olympia's height, 
Lived only for dear love and love's delight; 
Love is enough. 

Love is enough. Why should we care for fame? 

Ambition is a most unpleasant guest: 
It lures us with the glory of a name 

Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. 
Let us stay here in this secluded place, 
Made beautiful by love's endearing grace ; 
Love is enousrh. 

Love is enough. Why should we strive for power? 

It brings men only envy and distrust ; 
The poor world's homage pleases but an hour, 

And earthly honors vanish in the dust. 
The grandest lives are of ttimes desolate ; 
Let me be loved, and let who will be great; 
Love is enough. 

Love is enough. Why should we ask for more? 

What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? 
What better boon of all their precious store 

Than our fond hearts that love and love again? 
Old love may die; new love is just as sweet; 
And life is fair, and all the world complete; 
Love is enough. 

Ella Wheeler. 




j§F thou wert by my side, my love! 
How fast would evening fail 
In green Bengala's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! 

If thou, my love ! wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 
O'er Gunga's mimic sea! 

But miss thy kind approving eye, 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when of morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 
My course be onward still, 

oy?£*s'j~2)r^- ' ! 

" Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 
Across the dark blue sea." 

I miss thee at the dawning gray 
"When, on our deck reclined, 

In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer, 

O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 
O'er black Almorah's hill. 

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,- 

Nor wild Malwah detain, 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits, 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay, 

As then shall meet in thee ! 

Reginald Heber. 



O live in hell, and heaven to behold, 

VTo welcome life, and die a living death, 
To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold, 
J4, To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath, 
To tread a maze that never shall have end, 
To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears, 
To climb a hill, and never to descend, 

Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears, 

To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree, 

To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw, 

To live accurs'd, whom men hold blest to be, 

And weep those wrongs which never creature saw ; 

If this be love, if love in these be founded, 

My heart is love, for these in it are grounded. 

Henry Constable. 




flUO fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The hoat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
It's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar— 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 

Robert Burns. 

-^T- 2 - 


jfWEET hand that, held in mine, 

Seems the one thing I cannot live without, 
The soul's one anchorage in this storm and doubt, 
I take thee as a sign 

Of sweeter days in store 
For life, and more than life, when life is done, 
And thy soft pressure leads me gently on 

To Heaven's own evermore. 

I have not much to say, 
Nor that much in words, at such fond request, 

Let my blood speak to thine, and hear the rest 
Some silent heartfelt way. 

Thrice blest the faithful hand 
Which saves e'en while it blesses; hold me fast; 
Let me not go beneath the floods at last, 

So near the better land. 

Sweet hand that, thus in mine, 
Seems the one thing I cannot live without, 
My heart's one anchor in the storm and doubt, 

Take this, and make me thine. 


Of all the agonies in life, that which is most poignant and harrowing — that which, for 
the time, annihilates reason, and leaves our whole organization one lacerated, mangled 
heart — is the conviction that we have been deceived where we placed all the trust of love. 




iJVTrlRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed 
pp| The Augers of this hand wherewith I write ; 
■SJp^k And ever since it grew more clean and white — 

c^" Slow to world-greetings — quick with its "O, 

f list," 

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight 
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height 

The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed ! 

That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state ; since when, indeed, 

I have been proud and said, "My love, my own." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


MORN" ; the sea-breeze seems to bring 
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing; 
Bright flowers, to me all strange and new, 
Are glittering in the early dew ; 
And perfumes rise from many a grove 
As incense to the clouds that move 
Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear; 
But I am sad — thou art not here. 

'Tis noon ; a calm unbroken sleep 
Is on the hlue waves of the deep ; 
A soft haze, like a fairy dream, 
Is floating over hill and stream; 
And many a broad magnolia flower 
Within its shadowy woodland bower 
Is gleaming like a lovely star; 
But I am sad — 'thou art afar. 

'Tis eve; on earth the sunset skies 
Are painting their own Eden dyes ; 
The stars come down, and trembling glow 
Like blossoms in the waves below; 

And, like some unseen sprite, the breeze 
Seems lingering 'mid the orange-trees, 
Breathing in music round the spot; 
But I am sad — I see thee not. 

'Tis midnight; with a, soothing spell 
The far tones of the ocean swell, 
Soft as a mother's cadence mild, 
Low bending o'er her sleeping child; 
And on each wandering breeze are heard 
The rich notes of the mocking-bird 
In many a wild and wondrous lay; 
But I am sad — thou art away. 

I sink in dreams, low, sweet, and clear; 
Thy own dear voice is in my ear; 
Around my cheek thy tresses twine, 
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine, 
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed, 
Thy head is pillowed on my breast. 
Oh ! I have all my heart holds dear; 
And I am happy — thou art here. 

George D. Prentice. 


^CTrllE sunhasgane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, 
irA^s And left the red clouds to preside o'er the 
XT; scene, 

gig While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', 
J To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, 
And sweet is the birk, Wi' its mantle o' green; 

Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 
Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. 

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie — 
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 

And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
Wha 'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' 

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to thee'ening! — 
Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; 

Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. 

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! 

The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; 
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie 

Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum- 

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, 
Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain, 

And recken as naething the height o' its splendor, 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. 
Robert Tannahill. 




IfpOME into the garden, Maud, 

*^*j For the "black bat, night, has flown! 
Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 
And the woodbine spiees are waited abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, 

On a bed of daffodil sky, — 
To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, 

To faint in its light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune,— 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine, 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those 

For one that will never be thine ! . 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose 

" For ever and ever mine! " 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 

As the music clashed in the hall; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood, 

Our wood, that is dearer than all; 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs, 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes, 

To the woody hollows in which we meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls, 
Come hither ! the dances are done ; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate! 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near; " 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late; " 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear; " 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet! 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and heat, 

Were it earth in an earthly bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


jfHEN love with unconfindd wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair, 

And fettered with her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round, 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crowned, 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 



When, linnet-like confined, I, 
"With shriller note shall sing 

The mercy, sweetness, majesty, 
And glories of my ting ; 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 

( Stone walls do not a prison make, 
Nor iron bars a cage." 

When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great shoidd be, 
The enlarged winds, that curl the flood. 

Know no such liberty. 

If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Richard Lovelace. 


There has nearly always been a good wife behind every great man, and there is a good 
deal of truth in the saying that a man can be no greater than his wife will let him. 




IpS^EFORE I trust my fate to thee, 
|fc^ Or place my hand in thine, 
"<^P Before I let thy future give 
Color and form to mine, 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night 
for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the Past 
That holds thy spirit yet? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can 
pledge to thee? 

Does there within my dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine, 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 

Untouched, unshared by mine? 
If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost. 

Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfill? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still? 
Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life 
wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit change, 
Shedding a passing glory still 
On all things new and strange? 
It may not he thy fault alone — but shield my heart 
against thy own. 

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 

And answer to my claim, 
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — 
Not thou — had been to blame? 
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely 
warn and save me now. 

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, 

Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou has kept a portion back, 
While I have staked the whole, 
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy 
tell me so. 

Nay, answer not — I dare not hear, 
The words would come too late ; 
Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
So, comfort thee, my Fate, — 
Whatever on my heart may fall — remember, I would 
risk it all ! 

Adelaide Anne Procter. 


SAT with Doris, the shepherd maiden : 
Her crook was laden with wreathed flowers ; 

I sat and wooed her through sunlight wheeling, 
And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
Wild summer roses of rare perfume, 

The while I sued her, kept hushed and hearkened 
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger : 
She said, "We linger; we must not stay; 

My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander: 
Behold them yonder — how far they stray ! " 

I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you, 
And still be near you, and still adore; 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling ; 
Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more." 

She whispered, sighing : " There will be sorrow 
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day; 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 
I shall be scolded, and sent away." 

Said I, replying: "If they do miss you, 
They ought to kiss you, when you get home ; 

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you come." 

"They might remember," she answered meekly, 
"That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild; 

But if they love me 'tis none so fervent; 
I am a servant, and not a child." 

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me, 
And love did win me to swift reply : 

"Ah! do but prove me, and none shall bind yoir 
Nor fray nor find you, until I die." 

She blushed and started, and stood awaiting, 

As if debating in dreams divine ; 
But I did brave them — I told her plainly 

She doubted vainly ; she must be mine. 

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally the nibbling ewes, 

And homeward drove them, we two together, 
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her — 

My Doris tender, my Doris true : 
That I, her warder, did always bless her, 

And often press her, to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 

With love excelling and undefiled ; 
And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 

No more a servant, nor yet a child. 

Arthur J. Munbt. 




SAD are they who know not love, 
But, far from passion's tears and smiles, 

Drift down a moonless sea, and pass 
The silver coasts of fairy isles. 

And sadder they whose longing lips 
Kiss empty air, and never touch 

The dear warm mouth of those they love 
Waiting, wasting, suffering much ! 

But clear as amber, sweet as musk, 
Is life to those whose lives unite ; 

They walk in Allah's smile by day, 
And nestle in his heart by night. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

-i^S- §S3£- 

Spy SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
(V^- Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
*ffl- And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 

tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

O were I thou, that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 


Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown ; 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

O tell her," brief is life, but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



HE was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a- moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer'view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eyes serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A trav'ler between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 

William Wordsworth. 



IJOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel ; 
My fingers ache, my lips are dry; 
JpltgiOh,, if you felt the pain I feel I — 
But oh, who ever felt as I? 

No longer could I doubt him true ; 

All other men may use deceit; 
He always said my eyes were blue, 

And often swore my lips were sweet. 

Walter Savage Landor. 




gHE year stood at its equinox, 

And bluff the north was blowing, 
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, 

Green hardy things were growing ; 
I met a maid with shining locks 
Where milky kine were lowing. 

She wore a kerchief on her neck, 
Her bare arm showed its dimple , 

Pathetically rustical, 
Too pointless for the city. 

She kept in time without a beat, 
As true as church-bell ringers, 

Unless she tapped time with her feet, 
Or squeezed it with her fingers ; 

Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet 
As many a practiced singer's. 

' She wore a kerchief on her neck, 
Her bare arm showed its dimple.' 

Her apron spread without a speck, 
Her air was frank and simple. 

She milked into a wooden pail, 
And sang a country ditty — 

An innocent fond lover's tale, 
That was not wise nor witty, 

I stood a minute out of sight, 
Stood silent for a minute, 

To eye the pail, and creamy white 
The frothing milk within it — 

To eye the comely milking maid, 
Herself so fresh and creamy. 



"Good day to you! " at last I said; 

She turned her head to see me. 
"Good day! " she said, with lifted head; 

Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. 

And all the while she milked and milked 

The grave cow heavy-laden : 
I've seen grand ladies, plumed and silked, 

But not a sweeter maiden. 

But not a sweeter, fresher maid 

Than this in homely cotton, 
Whose pleasant face and silky "braid 

I have not yet forgotten. 

Seven springs have passed since then, as I 

Count with a sober sorrow ; 
Seven springs have come and passed nie by, 

And spring sets in to-morrow. 

I've half a mind to shake myself 
Free, just for once, from London, 

To set my work upon the shelf, 
And leave it done or undone : 

To run down by the early train, 
Whirl down with shriek and whistle, 

And feel the bluff north hlow again, 
And mark the sprouting thistle 

Set up on waste patch of the lane 
Its green and tender bristle ; 

And spy the scarce-blown violet hanks, 
Crisp primrose-leaves and others, 

And watch the lambs leap at their pranks, 
And butt their patient mothers. 

Alas ! one point in all my plan 
My serious thoughts demur to : 

Seven years have passed for maid and man, 
Seven years have passed for her too. 

Perhaps my rose is over-blown, 
Not rosy, or too rosy ; 

Perhaps in farm-house of her own 
Some husband keeps her cosy, 

Where I should show a face unknown- 
Good-bye, my wayside posy ! 

Christina Georgina Kossetti. 

-J-3-SXZ— E" 1 - 


*TJpiE skies are low, the winds are slow ; 
ig*s§ The woods are bathed in summer glory; 
-^^The mists are still, o'er field and hill; 
The brooklet sings its dreainy story. 

I careless rove through glen and grove ; 

I dream by hill and copse and river ; 
Or in the shade by aspen made 

I watch the restless shadows quiver. 

I lift my eyes to azure skies 
That shed their tinted glory o'er me; 

While memories sweet arourfd me fleet, 
As radiant as the scene before me. 

And while I muse upon the hues 
Of summer skies in splendor given, 

Sweet thoughts arise of rare deep eyes, 
Whose blue is like the blue of heaven. 

Bend low, fair skies! Smile sweet, fair eyes! 

From radiant skies rich hues are streaming; 
But in the blue of pure eyes true 

The radiance of my life is beaming. 

O skies of blue ! ye fade from view ; 

Faint grow the hues that o'er me quiver; — 
But the sure light of dear eyes bright 

Shines on forever and forever ! 

Francis F. Browne. 



jISS me softly and speak to me low, — 
Malice has ever a vigilant ear; 
What if Malice were lurking near? 
Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low, - 
Envy, too, has a watchful ear; 

What if Envy should chance to hear? 
Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

Kiss me softly and speak to me low ; 
Trust me, darling, the time is near 
When lovers may love with never a fear; — 
Kiss me, dear! 
Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 

John Godfrey Saxe. 




gOT what the chemists say they be, 
Are pearls — they never grew ; 
^Sf^They come not from the hollow sea, 
They come from heaven in dew ! 

Down in the Indian sea it slips, 
Through green and briny whirls, 

Where great shells catch it in their lips, 
And kiss it into pearls ! 

If dew can be so beauteous made, 

Oh, why not tears, my girl? 
Why not your tears? Be not afraid — 

I do but kiss a pearl! 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 


fiYTLD bird, that wingest wide the glimmering 
H J*sj moors, 


Whither, by belts of yellowing woods, away? 
What pausing sunset thy wild heart allures 
Deep into dying day? 

Would that my heart, on wings like thine, could pass 
Where stars their light in rosy regions lose — 

A happy shadow o'er the warm brown grass, 
Falling with falling dews ! 

Hast thou, like me, some true-love of thine own, 

In fairy lands beyond the utmost seas ; 
Who there, unsolaced, yearns for thee alone, 

And sings to silent trees? 

Oh, tell that woodbird that the summer grieves 
And the suns darken and the days grow cold ; 

And, tell her, love will fade with fading leaves, 
And cease in common mould. 

Fly from the winter of the world to her ! 

Fly, happy bird ! I follow in thy flight, 
Till thou art lost o'er yonder fringe of fir 

In baths of crimson light. 

My love is dying far away from me. 

She sits and saddens in the fading west. 
For her I mourn all day, and pine to be 

At night upon her breast. 

Egbert Bulwer Lytton. 



EHE western wind is blowing fair 

Across the dark ^Egean sea, 
And at the secret marble stair 

My Tyrian galley waits for thee. 
Come down ! the purple sail is spread, 

The watchman sleeps within the town ; 
O leave thy lily-flowered bed, 

O Lady mine, come down, come down! 

She will not come, I know her well, 

Of lover's vows she hath no care, 
And little good a man can tell 

Of one so cruel and so fan-. 
True love is but a woman's toy, 

They never know the lover's pain, 
And I who loved as loves a boy 

Must love in vain, must love in vain. 

O noble pilot, tell me true, 
Is that the sheen of golden hair? 

Or is it but the tangled dew 
That binds the passion-flowers there? 

Good sailor, come and tell me now 

Is that my lady's lily hand? 
Or is it but the gleaming prow, 

Or is it but the silver sand? 

No ! no ! 'tis not the tangled dew, 

'Tis not the silver-fretted sand, 
It is my own dear lady true 

With golden hair and lily hand ! 
O noble pilot, steer for Troy! 

Good sailor, ply the laboring oar! 
This is the Queen of life and joy 

Whom we must bear from Grecian shore! 

The waning sky grows faint and blue 

It wants an hour still of day; 
Aboard ! aboard ! my gallant crew 

O Lady mine, away! away! 
O noble pilot, steer for Troy! 

Good sailor, ply the laboring oarl 
loved as only loves a boy ! 

O loved forever, evermore ! 

Oscar Wilde. 




|>1CVS the day's last light is dying, 
fHHH As the night's first breeze is sighing, 
■^t)) ' ' I send you, love, like a messenger-dove, my 
thought through the distance flying ; 

Let it perch on your sill; or, better, 
Let it feel your soft hand's fetter, 
While you search and bring, from under its wing, love, 
hidden away like a letter. 

Edgar Fawcett. 


!i| FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; 
«| Thou needest not fear mine ; 
Jy My spirit is too deeply laden 
'ir Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; 

Thou needest not fear mine ; 
Innocent is the heart's devotion 

With which I worship thine. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


j|OME, all ye jolly shepherds 

That whistle through the glen, 
I "11 tell ye of a secret 

That courtiers dinna ken : 
What is the greatest bliss 

That the tongue o' man can name? 
'Tis to woo a bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame ! 

When the kye comes hame, 
When the kye conies hame, 
'Tween the gloaming and the mirk, 
When the kye conies hame ! 

'Tis not beneath the coronet, 

Nor canopy of state, 
'Tis not on couch of velvet, 

Nor arbor of the great, — 
'Tis beneath the spreading birk, 

In the glen without the name, 
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, 

When the kye comes hame! 

There the blackbird bigs his nest 

For the mate he loes to see, 
And on the topmost bough, 

O, a happy bird is he; 
Where he pours his melting ditty, 

And love is a' the theme, 
And he "11 woo his bonny lassie 

When the kye conies hame ! 

When the blewart bears a pearl, 
And the daisy turns a pea, 

And the bonny lucken gowan 

Has fauldit up her ee, 
Then the laverock frae the blue lift 

Doops down, an' thinks nae shame 
To woo his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame ! 

See yonder pawkie shepherd, 

That lingers on the hill, 
His ewes are in the fauld, 

An' his lambs are lying still; 
Yet he downa gang to bed, 

For his heart is in a flame, 
To meet his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame ! 

When the little wee bit heart 

Eises high in the breast, 
An' the little wee bit starn 

Eises red in the east, 
O there's a joy sae dear, 

That the heart can hardly frame, 
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie. 

When the kye comes hame ! 

Then since all nature joins 

In this love without alloy, 
O, wha wad prove a traitor 

To nature's dearest joy? 
O, wha wad choose a crown, 

Wi' its perils and its fame, 
And miss his bonny lassie 

When the kye comes hame? 

James Hogg. 



May all go well with you ! May life's short day glide on peaceful and bright, with no 
more clouds than may glisten in the sunshine, no more rain than may form a rainbow ; 
and may the veiled one of heaven bring us to meet again. 




! give me back that royal dream 

My fancy wrought, 
When I have seen your sunny eyes 
yiyf*. Grow moist with thought ; 

Lj And fondly hoped, dear Love, your heart from 
* mine 

f Its spell had caught ; 

*• And laid me down to dream that dream divine, 
But true, methought, 
Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours 
blessed as it ought. 

To learn to love sweet Nature more 

For your sweet sake, 
To watch with you — dear friend, with you! — 

Its wonders break ; 
The sparkling spring in that bright face to see 

Its mirror make — 
On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing 

By linn and lake ; 
And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a 
grander music wake! 

To wake the old weird world that sleeps 

In Irish lore ; 
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 

By Mulla's shore ; 
Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds 

That shine and soar ; 
Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows 

That Grattan swore ; 
The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — ah, 
me ! to sing no more. 

And all those proud old victor-fields 

We thrill to name, 
Whose memories are the stars that light 

Long nights of shame ; 
The Cairn, the Dan, the Bath, the Power, the Keep, 

That still proclaim 
In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep 

Was Eire's fame; 
Oh! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear 
friend we two have lov'd the same. 

Yet ah ! how truer, tenderer still 

Methought did seem 
That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home 

By Dodder's stream, 
The morning smile, that grew a fixgd star 

With love-lit beam, 
The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far 

And shining stream 
Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a 

For still to me, dear Friend, dear Love, 

Or both — dear wife, 
Your image comes with serious thoughts, 

But tender, rife ; 
No idle plaything to caress or chide 

In sport or strife, 
But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, 
To walk through life, 
Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true 
husband and true wife. 

Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. 


JjH, loosen the snood that you wear Jauette, 
^~J§ Let me tangle a hand in your hair — my pet; 
SpfFor the world to me had no daintier sight 
jj Than your brown hair veiling your shoulder 
white ; 
Your beautiful dark brown hair — my pet. 

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, 
It was finer than silk of the floss — my pet; 
'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 
'Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and kissed — 
'Twas the loveliest hair in the world — my pet. 

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
It was sinewy, bristled and brown — my pet; 
But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress, 
Your beautiful plenty of hair — my pet. 

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, 
Bevealing the old, dear story — my pet; 

They were gray with that chastened tinge of the sky 
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly, 
And they matched with your golden hair — my pet. 

Your lips— but I have no words, Janette — 
They were fresh as the twitter of bird's — my pet, 
When the spring is young, and roses are wet, 
With the dew-drops in each red bosom set, 
And they suited your gold-brown hair — my pet. 

Oh, you tangled my life in your hah, Janette, 
'Twas a silken and golden snare — my pet; 
But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore 
The right to continue your slave evermore, 
With my fingers enmeshed in your hair — my pet. 

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
With your lips and your eyes and your hair — niy pet; 
In the darkness of desolate years I moan, 
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
That covers your golden hair — my pet. 

Charles Graham Halpine. 





§f||f| LITTLE bird once met another bird. 
M|*§ And whistled to her, "Will you be my mate?" 
$||||8With fluttering wings she twittered, "How 
T" absurd ! 

Oh, what a silly pate ! " 

And off into a distant tree she flew, 

To find concealment in the shady cover ; 
And passed the hours in slyly peeping through 
At her rejected lover. 

The jilted bard, with drooping heart and wing, 

Poured forth his grief all day in plaintive songs ; 
Telling in sadness to the ear of Spring 
The story of his wrongs. 

But little thought he, while each nook and dell 

With the wild music of his plaint was thrilling, 
That scornful breast with sighs began to swell — 
Half -pitying and half -willing. 

Next month I walked the same sequestered way, 

When close together on a twig I spied them ; 
And in a nest half -hid with leaves there lay 
Four little birds beside them. 

Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop : 

When lover's hopes within their hearts you prison, 
Fly out of sight and hearing ; do not stop 
To look behind and listen. 

John B. L. Soule. 

" Silver sails all out of the west, 
Under the silver moon." 


[HiWEET and low, sweet and low, 
WzM Wind of the western sea, 
e ^ 9 Low, low, breathe and blow, 
Wind of the western sea! 
' Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon : 
Best, rest on mother's breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west, 
Under the silver moon ; 

Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep. 
Alfred Tennyson. 




lp WANDERED by the brookside, 
g#| I wandered by the mill ; 
1 I could not hear the brook flow — 
•I The noisy wheel was still ; 

There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird, 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

I watched the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word — 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not — no, he came not — 

The night came on alone — 
The little stars sat one by one 

Each on his golden throne; 
The evening wind passed by my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirred — ■ 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

East, silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder — 

I knew its touch was kind ; 
It drew me nearer — nearer — 

We did not speak one word, 
For the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound I heard. 


(Lord Houghton). 



Y heart is chilled, and my pulse is slow, 
L pp But often and often will memory go, 
>B'^ Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow, 
K Back to the days when I loved you so — 
> The beautiful long ago. 

I sit here dreaming them through and through, 
The blissful moments I shared with you — 
The sweet, sweet days when our love was new, 
When I was trustful and you were true — 
Beautiful days, but few ! 

Blest or wretched, fettered or free, 
Why should I care how your life may be, 
Or whether you wander by land or sea? 
I only know you are dead to me, 
Ever and hopelessly. 

Oh, how often at day's decline 

I pushed from my window the curtaining vine, 

To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine — 
Type of a message that, half divine, 

Flashed from your heart to mine. 

Once more the starlight is silvering all ; 
The roses sleep by the garden wall ; 
The night bird warbles his madrigal, 
And I hear again through the sweet air fall 
The evening bugle call. 

But summers will vanish and years will wane, 
And bring no light to your window-pane; 
No gracious sunshine or patient rain 
Can bring dead love back to life again : 
I call up the past in vain. 

My heart is heavy, my heart is old, 
And that proves dross which I counted gold; 
I watch no longer your curtain's fold; 
The window is dark and the night is cold, 
And the story forever told. 

Elizabeth Akeks Allen. 

(Florence Percy). 



|OOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, 

And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea : 
> How long they kiss in sight of all the lands — 
Ah ! longer, longer we. 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, 
As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, 

And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done. 
Love, lay thine hand in mine. 

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; 
Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. 
O Night! divorce our sun and sky apart — 
Never our lips, our hands. 

Sidney Lanier. 




JIlNCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part: 
^S Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me ; 
? And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, 
That thus so clearly I myself can free. 
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, 
And, when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 

When, his pulse. failing, Passion speechless lies; 

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — 

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, 

From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. 

Michael Drayton. 

' Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove." 


^pEE, by her smile, how soon the stranger knows ; 
'■*■ How soon by his the glad discovery shows, 
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, 
What answering looks of sympathy and joy! 
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word, 
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard ; 
And ever, ever to her lap he flies, 
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 

Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung, 
(That name most dear forever on his tongue) , 
As with soft accents round her neck he clings, 
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings : 
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, 
Breathe his sweet breath, and bliss for bliss impart : 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, 
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 

Samuel Rogers. 


DO confess thou 'rt sweet, yet find 
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets. 

Thy favors are but like the wind, 
That kisses everything it meets. 

And since thou can with more than one, 

Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 

The morning rose, that untouched stands, 
Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells ! 

But plucked and strained through ruder hands, 
Her sweet no longer with her dwells ; 

But scent and beauty both are gone, 

And leaves fall from her, one b} r one. 

Sir Robert Ayton. 





fjOME live with me and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hill and valley, grove and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 
There will we sit upon the rocks, 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
There will I make thee beds of roses, 
With a thousand fragrant posies; 
A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ; 

A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 
A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs. 
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May morning ; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 

Christopher Marlowe. 


f]T F all the world and love were young 
«Asj And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
jf These pretty pleasures might me move 
|l To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb, 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs; 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Ealeigh. 


?OVE is a sickness full of woes 

.fc A plant that most with cutting grows, 
Most barren with best usinar. 

Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 

Heisrh-ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind, 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
H not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Samuel Daniel. 



^QgTILL to be neat, still to be drest, 
<&~&! As you were going to a feast; 
J|L Still to he powdered, still perfumed - 
4 Lady, it is to be presumed, 
Though art's hid causes are not found, 
All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 

That makes simplicity a grace ; 

Bobes loosely flowing, hair as free — 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me 

Than all the adulteries of art : 

They strike mine eyes, but not niy heart. 

Ben Jonson. 




' a hill there grows a flower, 
Fair hef all the dainty sweet! 
*7<$\ By the flower there is a hower 
]|, Where the heavenly muses meet. 

In that bower there is a chair, 
Fringed all about with gold, 

Where doth sit the fairest fail- 
That ever eye did yet behold. 

It is Phillis, fair and bright, 
She that is the shepherd's joy, 

She that Venus did despite, 
And did blind her little boy. 

Who would not that face admire? 

Who would not this saint adore? 
Who would not this sight desire? 

Though he thought to see no more. 

Thou that art the shepherd's queen, 
Look upon thy love-sick swain ; 

By thy comfort have been seen 
Dead men brought to life again. 

Nicholas Breton. 

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" We sat in the hush of Summer eves, 
Saying but little, yet loving much." 


pHAT if either of us should die? 

Could the hearts that have loved us so tenderly 
%t§l|$ Be severed by death? Not so! not so! 

•I' My soul leans out from its house of clay, 
When the breeze that has fanned your cheek goes by, 
And says : " She's near! " I feel the touch 
Of her lip to mine ! of her hand, at play 

With my hair as it did, when, long ago, 
We sat in the hush of summer eves, 
Saying but little, yet loving much, 
And believing all that Love believes. 
And so I know, whate'er I list, 
Our souls shall keep thy holy tryst 
Through all the years of the life to be. 

W. H. Burleigh. 




^, SAW ye the lass wi' the honnie blue een? 
M Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen, 

Her cheek like the rose is, hut fresher, I ween; 

She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. 
The home of my love is helow in the valley, 
Where wild flowers welcome the wandering bee ; 
But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen 
Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een. 

When night overshadows her cot in the glen, 
She '11 steal out to meet her loved Donald again; 
And when the moon shines on the valley so green, 
I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 
As the dove that has wandered away from his nest 
Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, 
I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene, 
To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een. 

Richaed Ryan. 



E parted in silence, we parted by night, 

On the banks of that lonely river; 
Where the fragrant limes their houghs unite, 
•?-" We met— and we parted forever ! 

The night-bird sung and the stars above 

Told many a touching story, 
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet 
With the tears that were past controlling; 

We vowed we would never, no never, forget, 
And those vows at the time were consoling. 

But those lips that echoed the sounds of mint 

Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, 

Has shrouded its fires forever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look, 
And my heart grows full of weeping; 

Each star is to me a sealed hook, 
Some tale of that loved one keeping. 

We parted in silence — -we parted in tears, 

On the banks of that lonely river; 
But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years 

Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 

Julia Crawford. 



|0ME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, 
Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about 

Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold 

Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. 
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, 
Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten; 
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, 
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. 

Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, 
Telling of spring and its joyous renewing; 
And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, 
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. 
O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom, 
Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; 
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, 
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 

Figure that moves like a song through the even; 
Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, 
Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; 

Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, 
Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple; — 
O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming 
Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. 

You have been glad when you knew I was glad- 
dened ; 
Dear, are you sad now, to hear I am saddened? 
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, 
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love : 
I cannot weep hut your tears will be flowing, 
You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; 
I would not die without you at my side, love, 
You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow, 
Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, 

With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, 

Come, for my heart in your absence is weary, — 
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary, — 
Come to the arms which alone should caress thee, 
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee I 
Joseph Brennan. 




hQCROM you have I been absent in the spring, 
^B When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, 
X Hatn P ut a s P u ' it; of youth in everything 
»!' Thatheavy Saturn lauglrd, and leaped with him : 

Yet nor the lay of birds, nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers in odor and in hue, 
Could make me any summer's story tell, 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : 

Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you ; you pattern of all those. 
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, 
As with your shadow I with these did play. 

William Shakespeare. 


pHY so pale and wan, fond lover ! 
Prythee why so pale? 
^ Will, when looking well can't move her, 
Looking ill prevail? 
Prythee why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner! 
Prythee why so mute? 

Will, when speaking well can't win her, 
Saying nothing do 't? 
Prythee why so mute? 

Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : — 

The devil take her! 

Sik John Suckling. 




, tr 

DON'T be sorrowful, darling! 

And don't be sorrowful, pray; 
1 Taking the year together, my dear, 
There isn't more night than day. 

'Tis rainy weather, my darling; 

Time's waves they heavily run ; 
But taking the year together, my dear, 

There isn't more cloud than sun. 

We are old folks now, my darling, 
Our heads are growing gray; 

But taking the year all round, my dear, 
You will always find the May. 

We have had our May, my darling, 

And our roses long ago ; 
And the time of the year is coming, m}' dear, 

For the silent night and the snow. 

But God is God, my darling, 

Of the night as well as the day ; 
And we feel and know that we can go 

Wherever He leads the way. 

A God of the night, my darling 

Of the night of death so grim ; 
The gate that leads out of life, good wife, 

Is the gate that leads to Him. 

Rembrandt Peale. 


(iSfjOME ask'd me where the rubies grew, 
jjC5) And nothing I did say, 
"*^.*But with my finger pointed to 

]l The lips of Julia. 

Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where ; 
Then spoke I to my girle, 

To part her lips, and shewed them there 
The quarelets of pearl. 

One ask'd me where the roses grew; 

I bade him not go seek ; 
But forthwith bade my Julia show 

A bud in either cheek. 

Robert Herrick. 





' I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along, 5 



|p HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dewy breath I stood with beating heart beside the babbling 
fPf of morn; Mac-o-chee, 

H The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the To see my love come down the gien to keep her tryst 

"*■ corn. with me. 



I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path 'Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim- 
along, lit dream — 
And pause to pluck a flower, or hear the thrush's 'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the 
song. rippling stream; 

'Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south 

winds sigh. 
More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, 
low reply. 

Denied by her proud father as a suitor to he seen, 
She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little 

Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden 


_ , , ,, -i • -i , i i it « To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its 

For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth J x 

The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life, 

The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on 
bended knee 


'Tis said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned 
from above ; 


.., ,, , My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to 

For love this gracious princess gave, with all her ? , 

, . . ° ° her love, 
heart, to me. 

So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she 

With all the freshness of a girl in flush of woman- 

I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, 

Ah! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim 

with tears — 
I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone 

For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy 


And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on 
to be mine. the corn. 

Don Piatt. 


§KJ^HE gowan glitters on the sward, 
S»K Thp laverock's in the skv. 

The laverock's in the sky, 
-'And Collie on my plaid keeps ward, 
And time is passing by. 
O, no! sad and slow, 

And lengthened on the ground ; 
The shadow of our trysting bush 
It wears so slowly round. 

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, 

My lambs are bleating near : 
But still the sound that I love best, 
Alack ! I canna hear. 
O, no ! sad and slow, 

The shadow lingers still ; 
And like a lanely gaist I stand, 
And croon upon the hill. 

I hear below the water roar, 
The mill wi' clacking din, 
And Lucky scolding frae the door, 
To ca' the bairnies in. 
O, no ! sad and slow, 

These are nae sounds for me ; 
The shadow of our trysting bush 
It creeps sae drearily. 

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam, 

A snood o' bonnie blue, 
And promised, when our trysting cam', 
To tie it round her brow. 
O, no ! sad and slow, 

The mark it winna' pass: 
The shadow o' that dreary bush 
Is tethered on the grass. 

O, now I see her on the way! 

She's past the witch's knowe ; 
She's climbing up the brownie's brae ; 
My heart is in a lowe. 
O, no! 'tis not so, 

'Tis glamrie I hae seen; 
The shadow o' that hawthorn bush 
Will move nae mair till e'en. 

My book o' grace I'll try to read, 
Though conned wi' little skill; 
When Collie barks I'll raise my head, 
And find her on the hill. 
O, no! sad and slow, 

The time will ne'er be gane ; 
The shadow o' our trysting bush 
Is fixed like ony stane. 

Joanna Baillie. 




gHE walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 

y And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes, 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress 
Or softly lightens o'er her face, 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent — 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Byrox. 


jC|jT Paris it was, at the opera there ; 

And she looked like a queen in a book that 
With the wreath of pearls in her raven hair, 
And the brooch on her breast so bright. 

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, 
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatorg ; 

And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, 
The souls in purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; 

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, 
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, 

"Non ti scordar dimeV 

The Emperor there, in his box of state, 
Looked grave ; as if he had just seen 

The red flag wave from the city gate, 
Where his eagles in bronze had been. 

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye : 
You'd have said that her fancy had gone back 

For one moment, under the old blue sky 
To the old glad life in Spain. 

Well, there in our front-row box we sat 
Together, my bride betrothed and I ; 

My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, 
And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad — 
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, 

With that regal, indolent air she had — 
So confident of her charm! 

I have not a doubt she was thinking then 
Of her former lord, good soul that he was, 

"Who died the richest and roundest of men, 
The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that to get to the kingdom of heaven, 
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; 

I wish him well for the jointure given 
To my lady of Carabas. 

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love 
As I had not been thinking of aught for years; 

Till over my eyes there began to move 
Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time, 
When we stood 'neath the C3'press-trees together, 

In that lost land, in that soft clime, 
In the pleasant evening weather ; 

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), 
And her warm white neck in its golden chain ; 

And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot, 
And falling loose again ; 

Of the jasmine flower that she wore in her breast, 
(0 the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) 

And the one bird singing alone in his nest, 
And the one star over the tower. 

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, 
And the letter that brought me back my ring ; 

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, 
Such a very little thing ! 

For I thought of her grave below the hill, 
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over : 

And I thought, "Were she only living still, 
How I could forgive her and love her!" 

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, 
And of how, after all, old things are best, 

That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower 
Which she used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, 
It made me creep, and it made me cold! 

Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet 
Where a mummy is half unrolled. 

And I turned and looked : she was sitting there, 
In a dim box over the stage ; and drest 

In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, 
And that jasmine in her breast! 



I was here, and she was there; 

And the glittering horseshoe curved between! — 
From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair 

And her sumptuous scornful mien, 

To my early love with her eyes downcast, 
And over her primrose face the shade, 

(In short, from the future back to the past,) 
There was but a step to be made; 

To my early love from my future bride 
One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, 

I traversed the passage ; and down at her side 
I was sitting, a moment more. 

My thinking of her, or the music's strain, 
Or something which never will be exprest, 

Had brought her back from the grave again, 
With the jasmine in her breast. 

She is not dead, and she is not wed ! 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! 
And the very first word that her sweet lips said, 

My heart grew youthful again. 

The marchioness there, of Carabas, 

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; 
And but for her — well, we '11 let that pass ; 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love, 

With her primrose face, for old things are best; 
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above 

The brooch in my lady's breast. 

The world is filled with folly and sin, 
And love must cling where it can, I say : 

For beauty is easy enough to win; 
But one is n't loved every day. 

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, 
There's a moment when all would go smooth and 

If only the dead could And out when 
To come back and be forgiven. 

But O, the smell of that jasmine flower! 

And O, the music! and O, the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower — ■ 

Non ti scordar di me, 

Non ti scordar di me ! 



|OME in the evening or come in the morning, 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll 
adore you. 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, 
Bed js my cheek that they told me was blighted; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers, don't 
sever! " 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if j'ou choose them ; 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. 
I'll fetch from the mountain its br - eeze to inspire you ; 
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 

Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed 

Or saber and shield to a knight without armor; 

I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, 

Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love 

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie, 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy, 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. 
Oh! she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably 

And trust, when in secret most tunefullj r streaming, 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 

So come in the evening or come in the morning, 
.Come when you're looked for, or come without warn- 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 

Bed is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 

And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't 

Thomas Davis. 


Never burn kindly written letters : it is so pleasant to read them over when the ink 
is brown, the paper yellow with age, and the hands that traced the friendly words are 
folded over the hearts that prompted them. Keep all loving letters. Burn only the harsh 
ones, and in burning, forgive and forget them. 




gY time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, 
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; 
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my 

hreast : 
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! 
But now she is gone and has left me behind, 
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! 
When things were as fine as could possibly be, 
I thought 't was the Spring; but alas! it was she. 

But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, 
So strangely uneasy, as never was known. 
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, 
And my heart— I am sure it weighs more than a 

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, 
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among ; 
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 
'T was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear: 

A Wm 

m m 

" For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn." 

With such a companion to tend a few sheep, 
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep : 
I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay, 
My heart was as light as a feather all day; 

But now she is absent, I walk by its side, 
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; 
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? 
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me 



My lambkins around me -would oftentimes play, 
And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; 
How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, 
When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their 

prime : 
But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, 
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass; 
Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, 
To see you so merry while I am so sad. 

My -dog I was ever well pleased to see 
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me ; 
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, 
"Come hither, poor fellow; " and patted his head. 
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look 
Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my 

crook : 
And 1*11 give him another ; for why should not Tray 
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's away? 

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I 
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green ! 
What a lovely appearanee the trees and the shade, 
The cornfields and hedges and everything made ! 
But now she has left me, though all are still there, 
They none of them now so delightful appear : 
'T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, 
Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 

Sweet music went with us both all the wood 
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale, too; 
Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, 
And chirp ! went the grasshopper under our feet. 

But now she is absent, though still they sing on, 
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : 
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, 
Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 

Eose, what is become of thy delicate hue? 
And where is the violet's beautiful blue? 
Does aught of its sweetness the blossoms beguile? 
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? 
Ah ! rivals, I see why it was that you drest, 
And made yourselves fine for — a place in her breast; 
You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, 
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. 

How slowly Time creeps till my Phcebe return ! 
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn : 
Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread, 
I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt 

down the lead. 
Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, 
And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. 
Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay, 
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst 


Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, 
Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? 
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; 
But what swain is so silly to live without love! 
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, 
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. 
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair, 
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your 

John Bykom. 



|HE racing river leaped and sang 

Full blithely in the perfect weather, 

"All round the mountain echoes rang, 
For blue and green were glad together. 

This rains out light from every part, 
And that with songs of joy was thrilling; 

But in the hollow of my heart, 
There ached a place that wanted filling. 

Before the road and river meet, 

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 
I heard a sound of laughter sweet, 

And paused to like it, and to listen. 

I heard the chanting waters flow, 
The cushat's note, the bee's low humming. 

Then turned the hedge, and did not know — 
How could I? that my time was coming. 

A girl upon the highest stone, 
Half doubtful of the deed, was standing. 

So far the shallow flood had flown, 
Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 

She knew not any need of me, 
Yet me she wanted all unweeting; 

She thought not I had crossed the sea, 
And half the sphere, to give her meeting. 

I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moments had been hours; 
I took her in my arms and set 

Her dainty feet among the flowers. 

Her fellow-maids in copse and lane, 
Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling; 

The wind's soft whisper in the plain, 
That cushat's coo, the water's falling. 

But now it is a year ago, 

And now possession crowns endeavor; 
I took her in my heart to grow 

And fill the hollow place forever. 

Jean Ingelow. 




;'ELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother sit- 
| Is ci'oning, and moaning, and drowsily knit- 
" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
" 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass Hap- 

"Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 

And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for 

you, love. 
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly; 
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, 

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 

" Close bv the window young Eileen is spinning; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blina grandmother, sitting." 

"Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind 

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's 

stirring ; 
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, 1 
wonder? " 

" ' Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." 

" What makes you be shoving and moving your stool 

And singing all wrong that old song of ' The 
Coolun? ' " 

There's a form at the casement — the form of her true- 

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, 
Steals up from her seat, longs to go — and yet lingers ; 
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, 
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the 

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound. 
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 
The maid steps — then leaps to the arms of her lover. 

Slower — and slower — -and slower the wheel swings ; 

Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings. 

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and 

Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight 
are roving. 

John Francis Waller. 






OOK at me with thy large brown eyes, 
Philip my king, 
i«|?Bound whom the enshadowing purple lies 
JJ, Of babyhood's royal dignities : 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 
With love's invisible scepter laden ; 
I am thine Esther to command 
Till shou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, 
Philip) my king. 

Up from thy sweet mouth — up to thy brow, 

Philip my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant and make men bow 
As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers : 
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer 
Let me behold thee in future years ; — 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 

Philip my king. 

" Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 
With love's invisible "sceptre laden." 

O the day when thou goest a wooing, 

Philip mj' king ! 
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, 
And some gentle heart's bars undoing 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 
Sittest love-glorified. Eule kindly, 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, 
For we that love, ah? we love so blindly, 

Philip my king. 

A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip my king, 
Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way 
Thorny and cruel and cold and gray : 
Rebels within thee and foes without, 
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glo- 
Martyr, yet monarch : till angels shout, 
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 

" Philip the king ! " 

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 

- a -™/Z£=-?ZJZn*-* — 

Frank explanations with friends in case of affronts, sometimes save a perishing friend- 
ship, and even place it on a firmer basis than at first ; but secret discontentment always 
ends badly. 




ripFLOW gently, sweet Af ton, among thy green braes, 

Flow gently, 1'llsing thee a song in thy praise ; 

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 

Flow gently, sweet Aiton, disturb not her dream. 


How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodland the primroses blow; 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

" How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring; hills.' 

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds through the 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 
Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Aiton, disturb not her dream. 

Robert Burns. 

Love would put a new face on this dreary old world in which we dwell as pagans and 
enemies too long; and it would warm the heart to see how fast the vain diplomacy of 
statesmen, the impotence of armies and navies and lines of defense, would be superseded 
by this unarmed child. 




JQ^O.ME fairy spirit with his wand, 
8*13: I think, has hovered o'er the 


fAnd spread this film upon the pond. 
And touched it with this drowsy spell, 

For here the musing soul is merged 
In woods no other scene can bring, 

And sweeter seems the air when scourged 
With wandering wild-bee's rnnrmurinr;. 

One ripple streaks the little lake, 
Sharp purple-blue ; the birches, thin 

And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break 
To let a straying sunbeam in. 



How came we through the yielding wood, 
That day, to this sweet-rustling shore? 

Oh! there together while we stood, 
A butterfly was wafted o'er. 

In sleepy light; and even now 
His glimmering beauty doth return 

Upon me when the soft winds blow, 
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. 

The yielding wood? And yet 'twas loth 
To yield unto our happy march ; 

Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both 
Could pass its green, elastic arch. 

Yet there, at last, upon the marge 
"We found ourselves, and there, behold, 

In hosts the lilies, white and large, 
Lay close with hearts of downy gold ! 

Deep in the weedy waters spread 
The rootlets of the placid bloom : 

So sprung my love's flower, that was bred 
In deep still waters of heart's-gloom. . 

So sprung ; and so that morn was nursed 

To live in light, and on the pool 
Wherein its roots were deep immersed 

Burst into beauty broad and cool. 

Few words were said, as moments passed; 

I know not how it came — that awe 
And ardor of a glance that cast 

Our love in universal law. 

But all at once a bird sang loud, 
From dead twigs of the gleamy beech; 

His notes dropped dewy, as from a cloud, 
A blessing on our married speech. 

Ah, Love! how fresh and rare, even now, 
That moment and that mood return 

Upon me, when the soft winds blow. 
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn ! 

Geokge Parsons Lathrop. 




'ID and my Campaspe play'd 
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. 
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, 
y. His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; 
I Loses them too, and down he throws 
The coral of his lip — the rose 
Growing on 's cheek, but none knows how; 

With these the crystal on his brow, 
And then the dimple of his ohm; 
All these did my Campaspe win ; 
At last he set her both his eyes, 
She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 
O Love, hath she done this to thee? 
What shall, alas, become of me ! 

John Lylt. 


SH H® ^ a y returns, my bosom burns, 
<r**^> The blissful day we twa did meet; 
)jjK Though winter wild in tempest toiled, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 
And crosses o'er the sultry line, — 
Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes, 
Heaven gave me more; it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight. 

Or nature aught of pleasure give,— 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee and thee alone I live ; 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 

Robert Burns. 

Cultivate a spirit of love. Love is the diamond amongst the jewels of the believer's 
breastplate. The other graces shine like the precious stones of nature, with their own 
peculiar lustre, and various hues; now in white all the colors are united, so in love is 
centred every other grace and virtue; love is the fulfilling of the law. 


* The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave." 


nflTIIE groves were God's first temples. Ere man Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, 

msm learned And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 

*W< To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And supplication. For his simple heart 

J-l And spread the roof above them — ere he framed Might not resist the sacred influences 

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 

The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, And from the gray old trunks that high m heaven 




Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 

His spirit with the thought of boundless power 

And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Only among the crowd, and under roofs 

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 

Offer one hymn — thrice happy if it find 

Acceptance in his ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They in tlry sun 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches, till at last they stood, 
As now they stand, massy and tall and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
Report not. No fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summit of these trees 
In music ; thou art in the cooler breath 
That from the inmost darkness of the place 
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, 
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 
Here is continual worship; — nature, here, 
In the tranquility that thou dost love, 
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly around, 
From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, 
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots 
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
Of all the good it does. Thou has not left 
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,' 
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength and grace 
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, — 
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 
Almost annihilated, — not a prince, 
In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower 
With scented breath, and look so like a smile. 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 
An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
A visible token of the upholding Love, 
That are the soul of this wide universe. 

My heart is awed within me when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
In silence, round me, — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die ; but see again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses, — -ever gay and beautiful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost 
One of Earth's charms ! upon her bosom yet, 
After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch-enemy Death, — yea, seats himself 
Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 

There have been holy men who hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them; — and there have been holy men 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill 
With all the waters of the firmament, 
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods 
And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities, — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? 
O, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 

William Cullen Bryant. 




ifelE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, 

Ik ° ..... 

Because my feet And measure with its call; 
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, 
For I am known to them, both great and small. 
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows 
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given; 
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, 

And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; 

For he who with his Maker walks aright, 

Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; 

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, 

Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; 

And he, as when erect in soul he stood, 

Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 

Jones Very. 

"A grove 
.Of large extent, hard by a castle huge." 


i'TN^.ND hark! the Nightingale begins its song, — 
£*v*4 "Most musical, most melancholy" bird! 
{..-'- .} A melancholy bird? oh. idle thought! 
V In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 

'Tis the merry Nightingale, 

That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 

With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburden his full soul 
Of all its music ! 



And I know .1 grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass and kingcups, grow within the paths 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many nightingales ; and far and near, 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 
They answer and provoke each other's song, 
With skirmishes and capricious passagings, 
And murmurs musical and swift — jug, jug — 
And one low piping sound more sweet than all, 
Stirring the air with such a harmony, 
That, should you close your eyes, you might almost 

Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes. 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and 

Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

And oft a moment's space. 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon 
Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

' Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm." 


0TJT HESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
i-A^s Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
JL ■ Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
* Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love, 
Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; 
And every sense and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then tlry sun 
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year, 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales, 
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconflned, 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In winter awful thou! with clouds and storms 

Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. 
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing, 

Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 



Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, 
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combined; 
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 

In adoration join; and, ardent, raise 

One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, 

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes; 

O, talk of him in solitary glooms! 

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 

Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 

" By brooks and groves, in hollow whispering gales." 

That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring ; 

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 

Who shake the astonished world, lift high to Heaven 

The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; 

And let rne catch it as I muse along. 

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; 

' Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined." 

Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; 
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life, 

Nature, attend! join, every living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 

Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself, 

Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 

Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 



In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 
Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to him ; 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
As home* he goes beneath the joyous moon. 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 
Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 
Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 

"With clouds and storms, 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled." 

Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day ! best image here below 

Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, 
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night his praise. 

" Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound." 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 

From world to world, the vital ocean round, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 

On nature write with every beam his praise. Crown the great hymn ; in swarming cities vast, 

The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world. Assembled men, to the deep organ join 



The long resounding voice, oft-breaking, clear, 
At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
And, as each mingling flame increases each, 
In one united ardor rise to Heaven. 
Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
And find a fane in every sacred grove, 
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 

Eivers unknown to song, where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles, 'tis naught to me, 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full; 
And where he vital spreads there must be joy. 
When even at last the solemn hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 

"Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full." 

Still sing the God of seasons, as they roll! 
For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 
Eussets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams, 
Or winter rises in the blackening east, 
Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 

I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, 

Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 

Where universal love not smiles around, 

Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their sons; 

From seeming evil still educing good, 

And better thence again, and, better still, 

In infinite progression. But I lose 

Myself in him, in light ineffable ! 

Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. 

James Thomson. 


|LL heaven and earth are still — though not in 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep. 
All heaven and earth are still ; from the high host 
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concentred in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defense. 

And this is in the night — most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

Lord Bykon. 




3ERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

f There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society where none intrudes 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man the less, but nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
Prom all I may he, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 

" Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless and sublime. 1 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncofiined and unknown. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war — 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 



Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee ; 
Assyria, Greece, Kome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free 
And many a tyrant since ; then- shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou ; 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, 
Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow; 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless and sublime, 

The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ! even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goes forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 

Lord Byron. 


' Upon the roses it would feed." 


T heart leaps up -when I behold So be it when I shall grow old. 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when niy life began ; 
So is it now I am a man; 

Or let me die ! 
The child is father of the man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

William Wordsworth. 




|H, gentle Shepherd ! thine the lot to tend, 
Of all that feels distress, the most assail'd, 
Sf Feeble, defenceless ; lenient he thy care ; 

tl But spread around thy tenderest diligence 
In flowery spring-time, when the new-dropp'd lamb, 
Tottering with weakness by his mother's side, 
Feels the fresh world about him ; and each thorn, 
Hillock, or furrow, trips his feeble feet : 

Eurus oft flings his hail; the tardy fields, 
Pay not their promised food ; and oft the dam 
O'er her weak twins with empty udder mourns, 
Or fails to guard, when tbe bold bird of prey 
Alights, and hops in many turns around, 
And tires her also turning : to her aid 
Be nimble, and the weakest in thine arms 
Gently convey to the warm cote, and oft, 

" The weakest in thine arms, 

Gently convey to the warm cote." 

Oh! guard his meek, sweet innocence from all 
Th' numerous ills that rush around his life ; 
Mark the quick kite, with beak and talons prone, 
Circling the skies to snatch him from the plain ; 
Observe the lurking crows; beware the brake — 
There the sly fox the careless minute waits; 
Nor trust thy neighbor's dog, nor earth, nor sky : 
Thy bosom to a thousand cares divide; 

Between the lark's note and the nightingale's, 
His hungry bleating still with tepid milk ; — 
In this soft office may thy children join, 
And charitable actions learn in sport. 
Nor yield him to himself ere vernal airs 
Sprinkle the little croft with daisy flowers ; 
Nor yet forget him; life has rising ills. 

John Dyek. 




|HE -world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid "boon ! 
This sea that hares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 

For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton hlow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth. 


" Sweet voices in the woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute.' 


lT#ifHAT wak'st thou, Spring? — Sweet voices in the 
|||§ woods, 

And reed-like echoes, that have long heen 
mute ; 
Thou hringest hack, to All the solitudes, 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, 
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, 
Even as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet, Spring!— the joyous leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, 
When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 



And the bright waters — they, too, hear thy call, 
Spring, the awakener! thou has burst their sleep ! 

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep, 

Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers — the fairy -peopled world of flowers! 

Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 

And penciling the wood-anemone : 
Silent they seem ; yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring — 
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? 

Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing, 
Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 

Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art : 
What wak'st thou in the heart? 

Too much, 0, there too much! — we know not well 
Wherefore it should be thus; yet, roused by thee, 
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep 
Gush for the faces we no more may see. 
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that never more, 
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 

Past words of welcome to our household door, 
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet — 

Spring, 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, 
Why, why reviv'st thou these? 

Vain longings for the dead ! —why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living 

*' Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody." 

O, is it not that from thine earthly track 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? 
Yes, gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

3§™ Ss 


Wm CANNOT paint 

llf What then I was. The sounding cataract 
^P Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 
I The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite, a feeling and a love, 
That had no heed of a remoter charm 
By thoughts supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, 
• And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Eaint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
Have followed : for such loss, I would believe, 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean, and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods 
And mountains, and of all that we behold 
From this green earth ; of all the might}' world 
Of eye and ear — both what they half create, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In Nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

William Wordsworth. 






[3AST thou a charm to stay the morning star 
!*A> f In his steep course? So long he seems to pause 
"*§f^ On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc! 

J4, The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Eave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form I 
Kisest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently! Around thee and above, 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

Into the mighty vision passing — there, 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears 
Mute thanks and secret ecstacy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
O, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning star at dawn, 

" On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc! 

dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 

1 worshiped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald: wake, O wake and utter praise! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 



Forever shattered and the same forever? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy, 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 

And who commanded (and the silence came) , 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge, — 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! 
God ! Sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointiugpeaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — 
Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, a while bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me. — Rise, oh, ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

Samuel Taylok Coleridge. 

— z-wflz^Jlns-v-^- 


|ITH little here to do or see 
Of things that in the great world be, 
Daisy! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming commonplace 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which love makes for thee! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes, 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising : 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humor of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure, of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden, of love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next, — and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself, some faery bold 

In fight to cover ! 

I see thee glittering from afar, — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
May peace come never to his nest, 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Bright Flower ! for by that name at last, 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 

Sweet, silent creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 

William Wordsworth. 

What shall we say of flowers — those flaming banners of the vegetable world, which 
march in such various and splendid triumph before the coming of its fruits ? 




pP|HE night was dark, though sometimes a faint star 
siSss A little while a little space made bright, 
f f*~ Dark was the night, and like an iron bar 
J4. Lay heavy on the land : till o'er the sea 
Slowly, within the East, there grew a light 
Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be 
The herald of a greater. The pale white 
Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height 
Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew 
Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew 
Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East 
Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. 
It was as on the opening of a door 

By one who in his hand a lamp doth hold, 
(Its flame yet hidden by the garment's fold) — 
The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. 

More bright the East became, the ocean turned 
Dark and more dark against the brightening sky — 
Sharper against the sky the long sea line; 
The hollows of the breakers on the shore 
Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine; 
Though white the outer branches of the tree. 
From rose to red the level heaven burned ; 
Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, 
A blade of gold flashed on the ocean's rim. 

Richard Watson Gilder. 



"The Owl that, watching in the barn, 
Sees the mouse creeping in the corn." 


3HILE moonlight, silvering all the walls, 
Through every mouldering crevice falls, 
Tipping with white his powdery plume, 
As shades or shifts the changing gloom; 
The Owl that, watching in the barn, 

Sees the mouse creeping in the corn, 
Sits still, and shuts his round blue eyes 
As if he slept, — until he spies 
The little beast within his stretch, — 
Then starts, and seizes on the wretch ! 

Samuel Butler. 






E knew it would rain, for all the morn 
A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
g ?ST ' ^ as l° wel "i n g i ts golden buckets down 
i ? Into the vapory amethyst 

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens — 
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea, 
To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed 
The white of then- leaves ; the amber grain 

Shrunk in the wind , and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrioh. 



|HE rain has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours an airy flood ; 
And on the church's dizzy vane 
The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. 

Prom out the dripping ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely carven, gray and high, 

A dormer, facing westward, looks 
Upon the village like an eye : 

And now it glimmers in the sun, 
A square of gold, a disk, a speck : 

And in the belfry sits a dove 
With purple ripples on her neck. 

Thomas Bailey Aldeich. 

JB-SS-S 1 - 



Nature's great ancestor! day's elder-born, 
And fated to survive the transient sun ! 
By mortals and immortals seen with awe ! 
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, 
An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's 
Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, 

In ample folds of drapery divine, 
Thy flowing mantle form ; and heaven throughout 
Voluminously pour thy pompous train. 
Thy gloomy grandeurs (Nature's most august, 
Inspiring aspect!) claim a grateful verse; 
And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, 
Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. 

Edward Young. 




IkOUND this lovely valley rise 
The purple hills of Paradise. 

Oh, softly on yon hanks of haze 
Her rosy face the summer lays ; 
Becalmed along the azure sky 
The argosies of cloudland lie, 
"Whose shores with many a shining rift 
Far-off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 

I watch the mowers as they go 

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row; 
With even stroke their scythes they swing, 
In tune their merry whetstones ring. 

Behind, the nimble youngsters run, 

And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 
The cattle graze ; while warm and still 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, 

" I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 
Just where the field and forest meet." 

Through all the long midsummer day 
The meadow sides are sweet with hay. 

I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 

Just where the field and forest meet, — 
"Where grow the pine-trees, tall and bland, 
The ancient oaks, austere and grand, 

And fringy roots and pebbles fret 

The ripples of the rivulet. 

And bright, when summer breezes break, 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 

The butterfly and bumble-bee 
Come to the pleasant woods with me; 
Quickly before me runs the quail, 
Her chickens skulk behind the rail ; 
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 



" Quickly before me runs the quail. 
Her chickens skulk behind the rail.' 

And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 
The brooklet rings its tinkling hells. 

The swarming insects drone and hum, 

The partridge beats his throbbing drum, 
The squirrel leaps among the boughs, 
And chatters in his leafy house ; 

The oriole flashes by; and look — 

Into the mirror of the brook, 

Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, 
Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly, 

The down of peace descends on me. 

Oh, this is peace ! I have no need 

Of friend to talk, or book to read; 
A dear companion here abides, 
Close to my thrilling heart he hides; 

The holy silence is his voice : 

I lie, and listen, and rejoice. 

John Townsend TEOWBXiiDGE. 



|EE, the dapple-grey coursers of the morn 
Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs, 
And chase it through the sky. 

John Marston. 






jS it fell upon a day 
! In the merry month of May, 
Sitting in a pleasant shade 
Which a grove of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, 

Trees did grow, and plants did spring; 

Everything did banish moan, 

Save the nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Leaned her breast up-till a thorn; 

And there sung the doleful'st ditty 

That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; 

Teru, teru, by-and-by; 

That, to hear her so complain, 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs, so lively shown, 

Made me think upon mine own. 

Ah ! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain ; 

None takes pity on thy pain ; 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 

Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee ; 

King Pandion, he is dead ; 

All thy friends are lapped in lead ; 

All thy fellow-birds do sing, 

Careless of thy sorrowing! 

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, 

Thou and I were both beguiled, 

Every one that flatters thee 

Is no friend in misery. 

Words are easy, like the wind ; 

Faithful friends are hard to find. 

Every man will be thy friend 

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; 

But, if stores of crowns be scant, 

No man will supply thy want. 

If that one be prodigal, 

Bountiful they will him call ; 

And, with such-like flattering, 

"Pity but he were a king." 

If he be addict to vice, 

Quickly him they will entice ; 

But if Fortune once do frown, 

Then farewell his great renown : 

They that fawned on him before, 

Use his company no more. 

He that is thy friend indeed, 

He will help thee in thy need ; 

If thou sorrow, he will weep, 

If thou wake, he cannot sleep. 

Thus, of every grief in heart, 

He with thee doth bear a part. 

These are certain signs to know 

Faithful friend from flattering foe. 

Richard Barnfield. 


$HIS wondei'ful peak of the Rocky Mountain Range is one of the most noted 
and remarkable mountains in the world. It is among the highest in Colorado, 
„ being 14,176 feet high — one of the thirty-three peaks whose summits are 
i? 14,000 feet and upward above the sea. A tremendous chasm cleaves it on 
the eastern side nearly to the top, and right across this, perhaps three-fourths 
of the way up, is another, and these, filled with snow old as creation, form a 
perfect and most beautiful cross. It is one of the marked objects visible from 
Gray's and Pike's Peaks, and from a wide extent of country west of the dividing 
range of the continent. 


There is a river in the ocean. In the severest droughts it never fails, and in the 
mightiest floods it never overflows. Its banks and its bottoms are of cold water, while its 
current is of warm. The Gulf of Mexico is its fountain, and its mouth is the Arctic Seas. 
It is the Gulf Stream. There is in the world no other such majestic flow of waters. Its 
current is more rapid than the Mississippi or the Amazon, and its volume more than a. 
thousand times greater. 




gOOD-MORROW to thy sable beak 
''"'!» And glossy plumage dark and sleek, 
Thy crimson moon and azure eye, 
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy: 

The rarest things, with wayward will, 
Beneath the covert hide them still; 
The rarest things to break of day 
Look shortly forth, and shrink away. 

" Cock of the heath, so wildly shy,' 

I see thee slyly cowering through 
That wiry web of silvery dew, 
That twinkles in the morning air, 
Like casements of my lady fair. 

A maid there is in yonder tower, 
Who, peeping from her early bower, 
Half shows, like thee, her simple wile, 
Her braided hair and morning smile. 

A fleeting moment of delight 
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight; 
As short, I ween, the time will be 
That I shall parley hold with thee. 
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day. 
The chirping herd-boy chants his lay ; 
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring, — 
Thou art already on the wing. 

Joanna Baillie. 


There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember: — and there 

is pansies, that's for thoughts. 





f^)f HO has not dream'd a world of bliss, 
On a bright sunny noon like this, 
Couch'd by his native brook's green maze, 
"With comrade of his boyish days, 
While all around them seem'd to be 
Just as in joyous infancy? 

Through the tall fox-glove's crimson bloom, 
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom, 
Love you not, then, to list and hear 
The crackling of the gorse-nowers near, 
Pouring an orange-scented tide 
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide? 

" Who has not loved, at such an hour, 
Upon that heath, in birchen bower." 

"Who has not loved, at such an hour, 
Upon that heath, in birchen bower, 
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood, 
Its wild and sunny solitude? 
While o'er the waste of purple ling 
You mark a sultry glimmering; 
Silence herself there seems to sleep, 
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep, 
"Where slowly stray those lonely sheep, 

To hear the buzzard whimpering shrill, 
Hovering above you high and still? 
The twittering of the bird that dwells 
Amongst the heath's delicious bells? 
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade, 
Insects in green and gold array'd. 
The sun's gay tribes, have lightly stray'd ; 
And sweeter sound their humming wings 
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings. 
William Howitt. 




gf> IKX> of the wilderness, 

!§!$$ Blithesome and cumherless, 

i fp Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! 

J4. Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-xilace — 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! 

Wild is thy lay and lond. 

Far in the downy cloud 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 

Where, on thy dewy wing, 

Where art thou journeying? 
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen, 

O'er moor and mountain green, 
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim, 

Over the rainbow's rim, 
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 

Low in the heather blooms, 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! 

Emblem of happiness. 

Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 

James Hogg. 


" That low plaint oft and oft repeating 1 

To the coy mate that needs so much entreating." 


fl||EEP in the wood, thy voice I list, and love 
£j£r Thy soft complaining song, thy tender cooing ; 
JL O what a winning way thou hast of wooing ! 
*|f Gentlest of all thy race — sweet Turtle-dove ! 

Thine is a note that doth not pass away, 
Like the light music of a summer's day : 
The merle may trill his richest song in vain — 

Scarce do we say, "List! for he pipes again;" 
But thou ! that low plaint oft and oft repeating 
To the coy mate that needs so much entreating, 
Fillest the woods with a discursive song 
Of love, that sinketh deep, and resteth long; 
Hushing the voice of mirth, and staying folly 
And waking in the heart a gentle melancholy. 

D. Conway. 




alKHUS all day long the full distended clouds 
aiA±i Indulge their genial stores, and well-showered 
^f?> x earth 

J4, Is deep enriched with vegetable life ; 
Till, in the western sky, the downward sun 
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush 
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. 
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes 
The illumined mountain through the forest streams, 

Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow 
Shoots up immense ; and every hue unfolds, 
In fair proportion running from the red 
To where the violet fades into the sky. 
Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds 
Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism; 
And to the sage-instructed eye unfold 
The various twine of light, by thee disclosed, 
From the white mingling maze. Not so the boy; 

■ ■ 

-The grand ethereal bow 

Shoots up immense.' 

Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist, 
Far smoking o'er the interminable plain, 
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems. 
Moist, bright and green, the landscape laughs around. 
Full swell the woods ; their every music wakes, 
Mixed in wild concert with the warbling brooks 
Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills, 
The hollow lows responsive from the vales, 
Whence blending all the sweetened zephyr springs. 
Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud, 

He wondering views the bright enchantment bend, 

Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs 

To catch the falling glory ; but amazed 

Beholds the amusive arch before him fly, 

Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds, 

A softened shade, and saturated earth 

Awaits the morning beam, to give to light, 

Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes, 

The balmy treasures of the former day. 

James Thomson. 

-VT^S aromatic plants bestow 

No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
But, crushed or trodden to the ground, 
Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 

m% KNOW a bank where the wild thyme blows, 
iH Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows; 
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, 
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. 




HITHER, midst falling dew, 
Wffit While glow the heavens with the last steps of 
■£• V s day, 

j, i Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

i Thy solitary way? - 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
Thy figure floats along. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall 

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 

"All day thv wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere.' 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean-side? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

- a 'SS 

Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given 

And shall not soon depart : 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that 1 must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

— $— 


fELCOME, maids of honor! 
You doe bring 
In the spring, 
And wait upon her. 

She has virgins many 
Fresh and faire; 
Yet you are 

More sweet than any. 

Y'are the maiden posies, 

And so grac't, 

To be plac't 
'Fore damask roses. 

Yet though thus respected 

By and by 

Ye doe lie, 
Pooregirles! neglected. 





itlTHOU lookest up with meek, confiding eye, 
ir^-, Upon the clouded smile of April's face, 
!|k Unharmed though winter stands uncertain hy, 
* Eyeing with jealous glance each opening grace. 
Thou trustest wisely ! in thy faith arrayed, 
More glorious thou than Israel's wisest king; 
Such fate was his whom men to death betrayed. 

As thine who hear'st the timid voice of spring, 

While other flowers still hide them from her call, 

Along the river's brink and meadows bare, 

Thee will I seek beside the stony wall, 

And in thy trust with childlike heart would share, 

O'erjoyed that in thy early leaves I find, 

A lesson taught by him who loved all human kind. 

Jones Very. 

. otfeo. 

" From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood, 
The merle and the mavis are peeping." 


PHROM under the houghs in the snow-clad wood 
The merle and the mavis are peeping. 
Alike secure from the wind and the flood, 
Yet a silent Christmas keeping. 
Still happy are they, 
And their looks are gay, 
And they frisk it from bough to bough; 
Since berries bright red 
Hang over their head, 
A right goodly feast, I trow. 

There, under the boughs, in their wintry dress, 

Haps many a tender greeting; 
Blithe hearts have met, and the soft caress 
Hath told the delight of meeting'. 

Though winter hath come 
To his woodland home, 

There is mirth with old Christmas cheer, 

For 'neath the light snow 

Is the fruit-fraught bough, 
And each to his love is near. 

Yes ! under the boughs, scarce seen, nestle they, 

Those children of song together, — 
As blissful by night, as joyous by day, 
'Mid the snows and the wintry weather. 
For they dream of spring, 
And the songs they'll sing, 
When the flowers bloom again in the mead ; 
And mindful are they 
Of those blossoms gay, 
Which have brought them to-day 
Such help in their time of need ! 

Harrison Weir. 



" The tawny Eagle seats his callow brood 

High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood.' 


||HE tawny Eagle seats his callow "brood 


High on the cliff, and feasts his young with 

•"*F blood : 

¥ On Snowdon's rocks, or Orkney's wide domain, 
1 Whose beetling cliffs o'erhang the western 
The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms, 

Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms ; 
Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight, 
And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight; 

With cruel eye premeditates the war, 

And marks his destined victim from afar: 
Descending in a whirlwind to the ground, 
His pinions like the rush of waters sound : 
The fairest of the fold he bears away, 
And to his nest compels the struggling prey ; 
He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore, 
And dips his talons in no vulgar gore. 

Anna Letitia Bakbatild. 




PpOBTH we went, 

SI And down the vale, along the streamlet's edge, 


Pursued our way, a broken company, 

? Mute or conversing, singly or in pairs. 
' Thus having reach'd a bridge that overarch'd 
The hasty rivulet, where it lay becalm'd 

On the green turf, with his imperial front 
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 
The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, 
Beneath him, show'd his shadowy counterpart. 
Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, 
And each seem'd centre of his own fair world; 

" A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
Another and the same !" 

In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
A twofold image : on a grassy bank 
A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
Another and the same ! Most beautiful, 

Antipodes unconscious of each other, 

Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 

Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 

William Wokdsworth. 

there is not lost 
One of earth's charms ; upon her bosom yet, 
After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
And yet shall lie. 

IpjjIWEET is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
lUli With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
Glistering with dew. 




§jrp?ErEN, as a nimble squirrel from the wood, 
ifjjlll Banging the hedges for his filbert-food, 
~Q$s Sits partly on a bough his browne nuts cracking, 
And from the shell the sweet white kernell 
Till (with their crookes and bags) a sort of boyes 

The boyes runne dabling through thicke and thin : 
One tears his hose, another breakes his shin ; 
This, torn and tatter'd, hath with much adoe 
Got by the bryers ; and that hath lost his shoe ; 
This drops his hat — that headlong falls for haste; 
Another cryes behinde for being last : 

" He is forced to leave a nut nisrh broke, 
And for his life leape to a neighbour oake ' 

(To share with him) come with so great a noyse, 
That he is forced to leave a nut nigh broke, 
And for his life leape to a neighbour oake ; 
Thence to a beeche, thence to a row of ashes ; 
Whilst through the quagmires, and red water plashes, 

With stickes and stones, and many a sounding halloo, 
The little foole, with no small sport, they follow; 
Whilst he from tree to tree, from spray to spray, 
Gets to the wood, and hides him in his dray. 

William Browne. 

It is computed that the swallow flies upward of sixty, the crow twenty-five, and 
the hawk forty-two miles an hour. The flight of the English eagle is six thousand 
feet in a minute. 




fir. LOVE at eventide to walk alone, 
HH Down narrow lanes, o'erhung with dewy thorn, 
W Where, from the long grass underneath, the snail, 
i Jet "black, creeps out, and sprouts his timid horn. 

While in the juicy corn the hidden quail 

Cries, "Wet my foot;" and, hid as thoughts un- 
The fairy-like and seldom-seen landrail 

' I love at eventide to walk alone.' 

Hove to muse o'er meadows newly mown, Utters, "Craik! — craik!" like voices underground, 

Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air; Right glad to meet the evening dewy veil, 

Where bees search round, with sad and weary drone, And see the light fade into gloom around. 

In vain, for flowers that bloom'd but newly there ; John Clare. 

|OTHING is better able to gratify the inherent passion of novelty than a 
garden ; for Nature is always renewing her variegated appearance. She is 
vw-v infinite in her productions, and the life of man may come to its close 
before he has seen half the pictures which she is able to display. 




fLME was when I was free as air, 
The thistle's downy seed my fare, 

My drink the morning dew; 
I perch'd at will on every spray, 
My form genteel, my plumage gay, 
My strains forever new. 

For caught and caged, and starved to death, 
In dying sighs my little breath 
Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 

Thanks, gentle swaiu, for all my woes, 
And thanks for this effectual close 
And cure of every ill ! 

" The thistle's downy seed ray fare." 

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
And form genteel, were all in vain, 
And of a transient date ; 

More cruelty could none express ; 

And I, if you had shown me less, 

Had been your prisoner still. 

William Cowper. 



IjnY^HREE astonishing changes present themselves to our view in the kingdom of 
*Sk Nature. The first is — when a small seed dies in the lap of earth, and 
•&P* rises again in the verdant and flowery splendor of a youthful tree. The 
| next is — when, under a warm and feathery covering, life develops itself in 
I an egg, and a winged bird breaks singing through the shell. The third 
is — when a creeping caterpillar is transformed into a butterfly, which, with glitter- 
ing and delicate wing, rocks itself upon the lovely flowers. 




llPPP! quit thy bower! late wears the hour, 
'IK^ 1 Lomr have the rooks cawed round the tower; 

i 'a " 

\ O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, 
* And the wild kid sports merrily. 
The sun is bright, the sky is clear , 
Wake, lady, wake ! and hasten here. 

Up, maiden fair! and bind thy hair, 
And rouse thee in the breezy air! 
The lulling stream that soothed thy dream 
Is dancing in the sunny beam. 

Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay : 
Leave thy soft couch and haste away ! 

Up ! Time will tell the morning bell 
Its service-sound has chimed well ; 
The aged crone keeps house alone, 
The reapers to the fields are gone. 
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay : 
Lo! while thou sleep 'st they haste away! 

Joanna Baillie. 

Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his brush.' 



TVRAWIS' from his refuge in some lonely elm, 

,^ That age or injury has hollow'd deep, 
e 3§T > Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, 
J4 He has outslept the winter, ventures forth, 
To frisk a while and bask in the warm sun. 
The Squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play; 

He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, 
Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his 

And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud, 
With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm, 
And anger insignificantly fierce. 

William Cowper. 




|H, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green, 
That ereepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, 
To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years have made 
Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 

And a staunch old heart has he ; 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend the huge Oak-tree ! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves he gently waves, 

As he joyously hugs and crawleth around 
The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where grim death has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 

And nations have scattered been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant, in its lonely days, 

Shall fatten upon the past; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping on, where time has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Charles Dickens. 

" How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, 
And model'dit within with wool and clay." 



^fTTTHLTSr a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, 

That overhung a mole-hill large and round, 
cjS^ I heard, from morn to morn, a merry Thrush 
Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the 
With joy: — and often, an intruding guest, 

I watch'd her secret toils, from day to day, — 
How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, 
And model'd it within with wool and clay. 

And by-and-by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, 
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as 

Ink-spotted-over shells of green and blue ; 
And there I witness'd, in the summer hours, 

A brood of Nature's minstrels chirp and fly. 
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. 

John Clare, 



' And here he came, pierced by a fatal blow.' 


lOW in a grassy dingle he was laid, 

With wild wood primroses hefreckled low. 
ffi° x Over his head the wanton shadows play'd 

Of a young olive, that her houghs so spread, 
As with her leaves she seem'd to crown his head. 
And here he came, pierced by a fatal blow, 

As in a wood he walk'd, securely feeding; 
And feeling death swim in his endless bleeding, 
His heavy head his fainting strength exceeding, 
Bade farewell to the woods that round him wave, 
While tears from drooping flowers bedew his turfy 

Giles Fletcher. 

- r a-^e--e5-i- 


IGHT is the astronomer's accepted time; he goes to his delightful labors when 
the busy world goes to its rest. A dark pall spreads over the resorts of active 
life; terrestrial objects, hill and valley, and rock and stream, and the abodes of 
men disappear; but the curtain is drawn up which concealed the heavenly hosts. 
There they shine and there they move as they moved and shone to the eyes of 
Newton and Galileo, of Kepler and Copernicus, of Ptolemy and Hipparchus; 
yes, as they moved and shone when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of 
God shouted for joy. All has changed on earth; but the glorious heavens remain 
unchanged. The plow passes over the site of mighty cities; the homes of powerful 
nations are desolate; the languages they spoke are forgotten: but the stars that 
shone for them are shining for us ; the same eclipses run their steady cycle ; the 
same equinoxes call out the flowers of spring, and send the husbandman to the 



harvest; the sun pauses at either tropic as he did when his course began; and 

sun and moon, and planet and satellite, and star and constellation and galaxy, still 

bear witness to the power, the wisdom and the love which placed them in the heavens 

;and upholds them there. 

Edwaed Everett. 


thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 
And round his breast the ripples break. 
As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 
The dipping paddle echoes far, 

And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 
And bright reflects the polar star. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling blue 
Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
A sheet of silver spreads below, 

And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 

' And round his breast the ripples break, 
As down he bears before the gale." 

The waves along thy pebbly shore, 
As blows the north wind, heave their foam, 

And curl around the dashing oar, 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake ! 

Oh, I could ever sweep the oar, 
When early birds at morning wake, 

And evening tells us toil is o'er. 

James Gates Peecival. 

Nature always springs to the surface, and manages to show what she is. It is vain 
to stop or try to drive her back. She breaks through every obstacle, pushes forward, and 
at last makes for herself a way. 



" And the call of the pheasant 
Is frequent and pleasant." 


JfOME ye, come ye, to the green, green wood; 
i Loudly the blackbird is singing. 
The squirrel is feasting on blossom and bud, 
And the curling fern is springing : 
Here ye may sleep 
In the moss so deep, 
While the noon is so warm and so weary, 
And sweetly awake, 
As the sun through the brake 
Bids the fauvette and white-throat sing cheery. 

The quicken is tufted with blossom of snow, 

And is throwing its perfume around it; 
The wryneck replies to the cuckoo's halloo 
For joy that again she has found it; 
The jay's red breast 
Peeps over her nest, 
In the midst of the crab-blossoms blushing; 
And the call of the pheasant 
Is frequent and pleasant, 
When all other calls are hushing. 

William Howttt. 

"Come ye, come ye, to the green, green wood; 
Loudly the blackbird is singing." 


Nature imitates herself. A grain thrown into good ground brings forth fruit: a 
principle thrown into a good mind brings forth fruit. Everything is created and conducted 
by the same Master; the root, the branch, the fruits;— the principles, the consequences. 




MAY, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen 
y©; Spring's morning smiles and soul-enlivening 
W 1 green, 

| | Say, did you give the thrilling transport way? 
Did your eye brighten when young lambs at play 
Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride, 
Or grazed in merry clusters by your side? 
Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, 
At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; 

A thousand wily antics mark their stay, 
A startling crowd, impatient of delay. 
Like the fond dove, from fearful prison freed, 
Each seems to say, "Come, let us try our speed!" 
Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, 
The green turf trembling as they bound along ; 
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, 
Where every molehill is a bank of thyme ; 
There panting stop : yet scarcely can refrain, 


"Did your eye brighten when young Iambs at play 
Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride?" 

If spotless innocence, and infant mirth, 
Excite to praise, or give reflection birth, 
In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, 
'Mid Nature's revels, sports that never cloy. 
A few begin a short but vigorous race, 
And indolence abash'd soon flies the place; 
Then challenged forth, see thither, one by one, 
From every side assembling playmates run; 

A bird, a leaf, will set them off again: 
Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, 
Scattering the wild-briar roses into snow, 
Their little limbs increasing efforts try, 
Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. 
Ah, fallen rose! sad emblem of their doom; 
Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom ! 

Robert Bloomfield. 

-psS— 5>M- 

H||HE various productions of Nature were not made for us to tread upon, nor 
jr-^s only to feed our eyes with their grateful variety, or to bring a sweet 

' Tf x odor to us ; but there is a more internal beauty in them for our minds 
•"» to prey upon, did we but penetrate beyond the surface of these things 
into their hidden properties. 




pS instinct that directs the jealous Hare 

To choose her soft abode. With steps reversed 
She forms the doubling maze ; then, ere the 

- morn 
Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close 

Plot their destruction ; or, perchance in hopes 

Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead 

Or matted grass, wary and close they sit. 

When spring shines forth, season of love and joy, 

In the moist marsh, 'mong bed of rushes hid, 

They cool their boiling blood. When summer suns 

■ Ere the morn 

Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her close recess. 1 

As wandering shepherds on th' Arabian plains 
No settled residence observe, but shift 
Their moving camp ; now, on some cooler hill, 
With cedars crowned, court the refreshing breeze ; 
And then below, where trickling streams distil 
From some precarious source, their thirst allay, 
And feed their thirsting flocks : so the wise hares 
Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious eye 
Should mark their haunts, and by dark treacherous 

Bake the cleft earth, to thick, wide-spreading fields 
Of corn full-grown, they lead their helpless young : 
But when autumnal torrents and fierce rains 
Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling bank 
Their forms they delve, and cautiously avoid 
The dripping covert. Yet, when winter's cold 
Their limbs benumbs, thither with speed return'd, 
In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking creep 
Among the wither'd leaves; thus changing still, 
As fancy prompts them, or as food invites. 

William Somektille 
-s^M— — 


pAEL to thee, blithe spirit! 
''^■s Bird thou never wert, 

That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher. 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 
The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring, ever singest. 


In the golden lightning Sound of vernal showers 

Of the sunken sun, - On the twinkling grass, 

O'er which clouds are brightening, Rain-awakened flowers, — 

Thou dost float and run, All that ever was 

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

„,, n , Teach us, sprite or bird, 

The pale, purple even ' *\ ' 

-»r u ,i, j,- , j. What sweet thoughts are thine; 

Melts around thy flight b ' 

T ., . . t I have never heard 

Like a star of heaven, . 

In the broad daylight m Pmse of love or wine 

Thon art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. That P anted forth a flood of ra P ture s0 dlvme " 

Chorus hymeneal, 
Keen as are the arrows Or triumphal chant, 

Of that silver sphere, Matched with thine would be all 

Whose intense lamp narrows B ut an empty vaunt, — 

In the white dawn clear, j^ thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

What objects are the fountains 
All the earth and air Of thy happy strain? 

With thy voice is loud, What fields of waves or mountains? 

As, when night is bare, What shapes of sky or plain? 

From one lonely cloud What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- -..r^i. ^ i ^ 

With thy clear, keen loyanee 
flowed. T J *v 

Languor cannot be : 

Shadow of annoyance 
What thou art we know not : , T ., 

Never came near thee : 
What is most like thee . ^^ lo but ne , ej . knew love , g gad gatiety _ 

From rainbow-clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see, . Waking or asleep, 

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Thou of death must deem 

Things more true and deep 

Like a poet hidden Than we mortals dream, 

In the light of thought, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 

Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : And P ine f or what is not : 

Our smcerest laughter 

We look before and after, 

With some pain is fraught; 
sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 

Like a high-born maiden q 

In a palace tower, thought. 

Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour Yet if we could scorn 

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : Hate and pride and fear; 

If we were things born 
Like a glow-worm golden, Not to shed a tear, 

In a dell of dew, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Scattering unbeholden „ . 

T , . . , Better than all measures 

Its aerial hue ro-htf 1 

Amongst the flowers and grass which screen it from _ . ., ° „ ■ ' 

... Better than all treasures 

the view. _ . . . , 

That in books are found, 

T .. . , Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 

Like a rose embowered b 

In its own green leaves, Teach me half the gladness 

By warm winds deflowered, That thy brain must know, 

Till the scent it gives Such harmonious madness 

Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged From thy lips would flow 

thieves. The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

Pekcy Bysshe Shelley. 




|IT couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee ! 
Magnificent prison inclosing the free! 
"Y" With rock- wall encircled — with precipice 
I crown'd — 

• Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a 
Mid the fern and the heather, kind Nature doth keep 
One bright spot of green for her favorite's sleep ; 

Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopper sings, 
And away in the midst of his roundelay springs ; 
'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright than 

The wild-bee is busy, a musical elf — 
Then starts from his labor, unwearied and gay, 
And, circling his antlers, booms far, far away. 
While high up the mountains, in silence remote, 

" With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast, 
There lies the wild creature, e'en stately in rest !" 

And close to that covert, as clear as the skies 
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies, 
■Where the creature at rest can his image behold, 
Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as 

How lonesome ! how wild ! yet the wildness is rife 
With the stir of enjoyment — the spirit of life. 
The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake, 
Whose depths, at the sullen plunge, sullenly quake! 

The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note; 

The mellowing echo, on watch in the skies, 

Like a voice from the loftier climate replies. 

With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast, 

There lies the wild creature, e'en stately in rest! 

'Mid the grandeur of Nature, composed and serene, 

And proud in his heart of the mountainous scene, 

He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven, 

At noon sinking down on smooth wings to their haven, 



As if in his soul the bold animal smiled 

To his friends of the sky, the joint-heirs of the wild. 

Tes! fierce looks thy nature, e'en hush'd in repose — 

In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, 

Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar, 

"With a haughty defiance to come to the war! 

No outrage is war to a creature like thee ! 

The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, 

As thou barest thy neck on the wings of the wind, 

And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind. 

In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death— 

In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath— 

In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roar — 
In the cliff that, once trod, must be trodden no more- 
Thy trust, 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign ! 
But what if the stag on the mountain be slain? 
On the brink of the rock — lo ! he standeth at bay, 
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day : 
While hunter and hound in their terror retreat 
From the death that is spurn'd from his furious 

And his last cry of anger comes back from the 

As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. 

John Wilson (Christopher North). 

" Th' assembled chats 

Wave high the tremulous wing, and with shrill notes, 
But clear and pleasant, cheer th' extensive heath." 


|JERE the furze, 

Enrich'd among its spines with golden flowers, 
Scents the keen air ; while all its thorny groups, 
J4 Wide scatter'd o'er the waste, are full of life ; 
For, midst its yellow bloom, th' assembled chats 
Wave high the tremulous wing, and with shrill notes, 
But clear and pleasant, cheer th' extensive heath. 
Linnets in numerous flocks frequent it too; 
And bashful, hiding in the scenes remote 
From his congeners (they who make the woods 
And the thick copses echo to their song) , 

The stonechat makes his domicile; and while 
His patient mate with downy bosom warms 
Their future nestlings, he his love-lay sings, 
Loud to the shaggy wild. The Erica here, 
That o'er the Caledonian hills sublime 
Spreads its dark mantle (where the bees delight 
To seek their purest honey) , flourishes, 
Sometimes with bells like amethysts, and then 
Paler, and shaded like the maiden's cheek 
With gradual blushes ; other while as white 
As rime that hangs upon the frozen spray. 

Charlotte Smith. 

HE very soul seems to be refreshed on the bare recollection of the pleasure 
which the senses receive in contemplating, on a fine vernal morning, the 
charms of the pink, the violet, the rose, the honey-suckle, the hyacinth, the 
tulip, and a thousand other flowers, in every variety of figure,' scent, and 
hue; for Nature is no less remarkable for the accuracy and beauty of her 
"works than for variety and profusion. 




SgHE gorse is yellow on the heath, 

The hanks with speedwell flowers are gay, 
The oaks are budding; and beneath, 
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, 

The silver wreath of May. 

The welcome guest of settled spring, 
The Swallow too is come at last; 

Just at sun-set, when thrushes sing, 

I saw her dash with rapid wing, 
And hail'd her as she pass'd. 

Come, summer visitant, attach 

To my reed-roof your nest of clay; 
And let my ear your music catch, 
Low twittering underneath the thatch, 
At the grey dawn of day. 

As fables tell, an Indian sage 

The Hindostani woods among, 
Could, in his distant hermitage, 
As if 'twere marked in written page, 

Translate the wild bird's song. 

I wish I did his power possess, 

That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, 
What our vain systems only guess, 

And know from what wild wilderness 
You came across the sea. 

I would a little while restrain 

Your rapid wing, that I might hear 
Whether on clouds that bring the rain 
You sail'd above the western main, 
The wind your charioteer. 

In Afric, does the sultry gale 

Through spicy bower and palmy grove 
Bear the repeated cuckoo's tale? 
Dwells there a time the wandering rail, 

Or the itinerant dove? 

Were you in Asia? O relate 
If there your fabled sister's woes 

She seemed in sorrow to narrate ; 

Or sings she but to celebrate 
Her nuptials with the rose? 

I would inquire how, journeying long- 
The vast and pathless ocean o'er, 

You ply again those pinions strong, 

And come to build anew among 
The scenes you left before? 

But if, as colder breezes blow. 

Prophetic of the waning year, 
You hide, though none know when or how, 
In the cliff's excavated brow, 

And linger torpid here ; 

Thus lost to life, what favoring dream 

Bids you to happier hours awake, 
And tells that, dancing on the beam, 
The light gnat hovers o'er the stream, 
The May-fly on the lake? 

" The welcome guest of settled spring, 
The Swallow too is come at last." 

Or if, by instinct taught to know 

Approaching dearth of insect food, 
To isles and willowy aits you go, 
And, crowding on the pliant bough 
Sink in the dimpling flood; 

How learn ye, while the cold waves boom 
Your deep and oozy couch above, 

The time when flowers of promise bloom,. 

And call you from your transient tomb, 
To light, and life, and love? 

Alas! how little can be known, 

Her sacred veil where Nature draws ; 

Let baffled Science humbly own 

Her mysteries, understood alone 
By Him who gives her laws. 

Charlotte Smith. 


fyjf^V heart is awed within me when I think 
JATAj Of the great miracle that still goes on 
In silence round me — the perpetual woi\u 
Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on Thy works I read 
The lesson of Thy own eternity. 

fY^CM all grow old and die — but, see again! 
§«* How on the faltering footsteps of decay 

Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth. 

In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 

Wave not less proudly than their ancestors 

Moulder beneath them. 




tfxMlKE fragments of an uncompleted world, 
if|il| From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and spray, 
S*°? To where the peaks of Darien lie curled 
J In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and gray ; 

The seamen nearing S r i Francisco Bay 
Forget the compass here ; with sturdy hand 
They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely lay 
The ship to shore by rugged peaks that stand 
The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land. 

They stand white stairs of heaven — stand a line 
Of lifting, endless, and eternal white; 
They look upon the far and flashing brine, 
Upon the boundless plains, the broken height 
Of Kamiakin's battlements. The flight 
Of time is underneath their untopped towers ; 
They seem to push aside the moon at night, 
To jostle and to loose the stars. The flowers 
Of heaven fall about their brows in shining showers. 

They stand a line of lifted snowy isles, 
High held above a tossed and tumbled sea, — 
A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles ; 
White pyramids of Faith where man is free ; 
White monuments of Hope that yet shall be 
The mounts of matchless and immortal song. 
I look far down the hollow days ; I see 
The bearded prophets, simple-soul'd and strong, 
That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding 

Serene and satisfied ! supreme ! as lone 
As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd: 
They look as cold as kings upon a throne ; 
The mantling wings of night are crush'd and cmi'di 
As feathers curl. The elements are huii'd 
From off their bosoms, and are bidden go, 
Like evil spirits, to an under- world ; 
They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, 
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. 

Joaquin Miller. 




T of the bosom of the Air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare. 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
Silent and soft and slow 
Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expression, 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 

In the white countenance confession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 

This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
This is the secret of despair, 
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 




XIfHE noon was shady, and soft airs 
yi±i Swept Ouse's silent tide, 
"^^ When, 'scaped from literary cares, 
¥ I wander'd by its side. 
My spaniel, prettiest of the race, 

And high in pedigree, 
(Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace 
That spaniel found for me). 

And puzzling set his puppy brains 
To comprehend the case. 

But, with a chirrup clear and strong 

Dispersing all his dream, 
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long 

The windings of the stream. 

My ramble ended, I return'd ; 
Beau, trotting far before, 

I saw him, with that lily cropp'd." 

Now wanton'd, lost in flags and reeds, 

Now starting into sight, 
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads, 

With scarce a slower flight. 

It was the time when Ouse display'd 

Her lilies newly blown; 
Their beauties I intent survey'd 

And one I wish'd my own. 

With cane extended far, I sought 

To steer it close to land : 
But still the prize, though nearly caught, 

Escaped my eager hand. 

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains 
With flx'd considerate face, 

The floating wreath again discern'd, 
And plunging left the shore. 

I saw him, with that lily cropp'd, 

Impatient swim to meet 
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd 

The treasure at my feet. 

Charm'd with the sight, " The world," I cried, 

" Shall hear of this thy deed : 
My dog shall mortify the pride 

Of man's superior breed : 

"But chief myself I will enjoin, 

Awake at duty's call, 
To show a love as prompt as thine 

To Him who gives me all." 

William Cowpek. 

It is with flowers as with moral qualities - 
©us, but, I believe, never the sweet. 

■the bright are sometimes poison- 





§OME, let us plant the apple-tree. 
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ; 
Wide let its hollow bed he made ; 
There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 

And press it o'er them tenderly, 
As round the sleeping infant's feet 
"We softly fold the cradle sheet; 
So plant we the apple-tree. 

A world of blossoms for the bee, 
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 

We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
And redden in the August noon, 
And drop, when gentle airs come by, 

" Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, 
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest." 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 
Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast 
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest ; 

We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
A shadow for the noontide hour, 
A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree? 
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the May- wind's restless wings, 
When, from the orchard row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors ; 

That fan the blue September sky, 

While children come, with cries of glee, 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass, 
At the foot of the apple-tree. 

And when, above this apple-tree, 
The winter stars are quivering bright, 
And winds go howling through the night, 
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth. 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, 

And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine 

And golden orange of the Line, 

The fruit of the apple-tree. 



The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall hear to coasts that lie afar, 
Where men shall wonder at the view, 
And ask in what fair groves they grew, 

And sojourners heyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood's careless day 
And long, long hours of summer play, 

In the shade of the apple-tree. 

And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
O, when its aged "branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below, 
Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still? 

What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
Of those who live when length of years 

Is wasting this apple-tree? 


,[|" 'ilk 



1 -lvl 

" Shall think of childhood's careless day, 
And long, long hours of summer play, 
In the shade of the apple-tree." 

Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 

The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 

"Who planted this old apple-tree?" 
The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say; 
And, gazing on its mossy stem, 
The gray-haired man shall answer them : 

" A poet of the land was he, 
Born in the rude but good old times ; 
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes 

On planting the apple-tree." 

William Cullen Bktant. 



^pHERE is a flower, a little flower 

With silver crest and golden eye, 
That welcomes every changing hour, 
J"l And weathers every sky. 

The prouder beauties of the field 
In gay but quick succession shine ; 

Race after race their honors yield, 
They flourish and decline. 

But this small flower, to Nature dear, 
While moons and stars their courses run, 

Liwreathes the circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 

It smiles upon the lap of May, 
To sultry August spreads its charm, 

Lights pale October on his way, 
And twines December's arm. 



The purple heath and golden broom 
On moory mountains catch the gale; 

O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, 
The violet in the vale. 

But this hold floweret climbs the hill, 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 

Plays on the margin of the rill, 
Peeps round the fox's den. 

The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 

The wild bee murmurs on its breast; 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem 

Light o'er the skylark's nest. 

'Tis Flora's page, — in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair; 

It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms everywhere. 

' 'T is Flora's page — in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair." 

Within the garden's cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; 

And blooms on consecrated ground 
In honor of the dead. 

On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 
Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 

The rose has but a summer reign ; 
The daisy never dies! 

James Montgomery. 

The sense of beauty in Nature, even among cultured people, is less often met with 
than other mental endowments. 




SEE j v on Eobin on the spray; 

1 Look ye! how his tiny form 
Swells, as when his merry lay 
Gushes forth amid the storm. 

Yet from out the darkness dreary 
Cometh still that cheerful note; 
Praiseful aye, and never weary, 
Is that little warbling throat. 

" Though the snow is falling fast, 
Specking o'er his coat with white.' 

Though the snow is falling fast, 
Specking o'er his coat with white — 
Though loud roars the chilly blast, 
And the evening's lost in night, — 

Thank him for his lesson's sake, 
Thank God's gentle minstrel there, 
Who, when storms make others quake 
Sings of days that brighter were. 

Harrison Weik. 

lH|UTHEIl always kept a flower in a glass on his writing-table; and when he was 
waging his great public controversy with Eckins he kept a flower in his hand. 
Lord Bacon has a beautiful passage about flowers. As to Shakespeare, he is 
a perfect Alpine valley — he is full of flowers; they spring, and blossom, and 
wave in every cleft of his mind. Even Milton, cold, serene, and stately as he is, 
breaks forth into exquisite gushes of tenderness and fancy when he marshals the 



'And birds sit brooding in the snow." 




JgHESr daisies pied, and violets blue, 
JifPP And lady-smocks all silver-white, 
\mi An^L cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, 
vi Do paint the meadows with delight, 
The cuckoo then, on every tree, 
Mocks married men, for thus sings he, 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, 
Unpleasing to a married ear! 

"When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, 
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, 

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, 
And maidens bleach their summer smocks, 

The cuckoo then, on every tree, 

Mocks married men, for thus sings he, 
Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear! 

When icicles hang by the wall, 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who ; 
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all around the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw, 
"When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 
Then nightly sings the staring-owl, 

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

William Shakespeake. 

2 ^S>S^ 


jjfjfHE stormy March is come at last, 

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies: 
^ I hear the rushing of the blast, 

That through the snowy valley flies. 

Ah, passing few are they who speak, 
Wild, stormy month ! in pi-aise of thee ; 

Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
Thou art a welcome month to me. 

Eor thou, to Northern lands, again 
The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 

And thou hast joined the gentle train 
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. 

And in thy reign of blast and storm, 
Smiles many a long, bright sunny day, 

When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
And heaven puts on the blue of May. 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills 

In joy that they again are free, 
And, brightly leaping down the hills, 

Renew their journey to the sea. 

The year's departing beauty hides, 
Of wintry storms the sullen threat; 

But in thy sternest frown abides 
A look of kindly promise yet. 

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 
And that soft time of sunny showers, 

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
Seems of a brighter world than ours. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

-^3SS— gEEi- 

Stately Spring ! whose robe-folds are valleys, whose breast-bouquet is gardens, and 
whose blush is a vernal evening. 




lOOE little foal of an oppressed race ! 
§3 I love the languid patience of thy face : 

And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, 
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head. 
1 But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay 'd, 
That never thou dost sport along the glade? 
And (most unlike the nature of things young) 
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung? 
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, 
Meek child of misery I thy future fate, — 

Poor ass! thy master should have learnt to show 
Pity — best taught by fellowship of woe; 
For much I fear me that he lives like thee, 
Half famish'd in a land of luxury ! 
How askingly its footsteps hither bend ! 
It seems to say, " And have I then one friend ? " 
Innocent foal! thou poor despised, forlorn! 
I hail thee brother, spite of the fool's scorn ; 
And fain would take thee with me, in the dell 
Of peace and mild equality to dwell, 

" Is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain, 

To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain? 

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches 
" Which patient merit of th' unworthy takes?" 
Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain, 
To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain? 
And truly very piteous is her lot, 
Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot, 
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen, 
While sweet around her waves the tempting green ! 


Where toil shall call the charmer health his bride, 

And laughter tickle plenty's ribless side ! 

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, 

And frisk about as lamb or kitten gay! 

Tea, and more musically sweet to me 

Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be, 

Than warbled melodies,,that soothe to rest 

The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast! 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 




| ! THOU bright and beautiful day, 

First bright day of the virgin spring, 
Bringing the slumbering life into play, 
Giving the leaping bird his wing ! 

I hear thy voice in the lark's clear note, 
In the cricket's chirp at the evening hour, 

In the zephyr's sighs that around me float, 
In the breathing bud and the opening flower. 

" In the thousand plants that spring to birth, 
On the valley's side in the home of shade." 

Thou art round me now in all thy hues', 
Thy robe of green, and thy scented sweets, 

In thy bursting buds, in thy blessing dews, 
In every form that my footstep meets. 

I see thy forms o'er the parting earth, 
In the tender shoots of the grassy blade, 

In the thousand plants that spring to birth, 
On the valley's side in the home of shade. 



I feel thy promise in all my veins, 

They bound with a feeling long suppressed, 
And, like a captive who breaks his chains, 

Leap the glad hopes in my heaving breast. 

There are life and joy in thy coming, Spring! 

Thou hast no tidings of gloom and death : 
But buds thou shakest from every wing, 

And sweets thou breatbest with every breath. 

William Gilmore Simms. 



jgAY is dying ! Float, O song, 
Down the westward river, 
Requiem chanting to the Day — 
Day, the mighty Giver. 

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds, 

Melted rubies sending 
Through the river and the sky, 

Earth and heaven blending. 

All the long-drawn earthly banks 
Up to cloud-land lifting ; 

Slow between them drifts the swan, 
'Twixt two heavens drifting. 

Wings half open like a flower 

Inly deeply flushing, 
Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — 

Virgin proudly blushing. 

Day is dying! Float, O swan, 

Down the ruby river; 
Follow, song, in requiem 

To the mighty Giver. 
Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot). 

" I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers." 


COME from haunts of coot and hern : 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 



Til] last by Philip's farm I flow- 
To' join the brimming river, 

Eor men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

"With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow , 

To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
"With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

Eor men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots : 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. .' 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
. Among my skimming swallows ; 
I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows; 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars; 
I loiter round my cresses ; 

" I chatter over stony ways." 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river; 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



I| AIL, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born! 
'^ Or of the Eternal eoeternal beam, 

May I express thee unblamed? since God is 
Ji light, 

And never but in unapproache'd light 
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee, 
Bright effluence of bright essence increate ! 
Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream. 
Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the Sun, 
Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep, 
Won from the void and formless Infinite ! 

For wonderful indeed are all his works. 

Pleasant to know, and worthiest to be all 

Had in remembrance always with delight! 

But what created mind can comprehend 

Their number, or the wisdom infinite 

That brought them forth, but hid their causes deep? 

I saw when, at his word, the formless mass, 

This world's material mould, came to a heap : 

Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar 

Stood ruled, stood vast Infinitude confined; 

Till, at his second bidding, darkness fled, 

Light shone, and order from disorder sprung. 

John Milton. 




|0 ! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, 
Fair Venus' tram, appear, 
"jfex 3 Disclose the long-expecting flowers 
And wake the purple year ! 
The Attic warbler pours her throat 
Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
The untaught harmony of spring : 
While whispering pleasure as tbey fly, 
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
Their gathered fragrance fling. 

And float amid the liquid noon : 
Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
Some show their gayly gilded trim 
Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To Contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the race of man ; 
And they that creep, and they that fly, 

Shall end where they began. 
Alike the busy and the gay 
But flutter through life's little day, 

' Still is the toiling hand of care; 
The panting herds repose." 

"Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader, browner shade, 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'ercanopies the glade, 
Beside some water's rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
(At ease reclined in rustic state) 
How vain the ardor of the crowd, 
How low, how little are the proud, 

How indigent the great! 

Still is the toiling hand of care; 

The panting herds repose : 
Yet hark, how through the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows ! 
The insect youth are on the wing, 
Eager to taste the honeyed spring 

In Fortune's varying colors drest: 
Brushed by the hand of rough mischance 
Or chilled by age, their airy dance 
They leave, in dust to rest. 

Methinks I hear in accents low 

The sportive kind reply : 
Poor moralist ! and what art thou? 

A solitary fly ! 
Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, 
No painted plumage to display ; 
On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone. — 

We frolic while 't is May. 

Thomas Gray. 




JlS morning; and the sun, -with ruddy orb 
|p Ascending, fires the horizon ; while the clouds 
That crowd away before the driving wind, 
More ardent as the disk emerges more, 
Eesemble most some city in a blaze. 
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray 
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, 
And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, 
From every herb and every spiry blade 
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 
Mine, spindling into longitude immense. 
In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
That I myself am but a fleeting shade, 
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
I view the muscular proportioned limb 
Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, 
As they designed to mock me. at my side 
Take step for step ; and, as I near approach 

The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, 
Preposterous sight! the legs without the man. 
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents, 
And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, 
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, 
And, fledged with icy feathers, not superb. 
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence 
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep 
In unreeumbent sadness. There they wait 
Their wonted fodder; not, like hungering man, 
Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent, meek. 
And patient 'of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, 
Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, 
His broad keen knife into the solid mass; 
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 



With such undeviating and even force 
He severs it away : no needless care 
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile 
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned 
The cheerful haunts of men — to wield the axe 
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, 
From morn to eve his solitary task. 
Shaggy and lean and shrewd with pointed ears, 
And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, 
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
Now creeps he slow ; and now, with many a frisk 
Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow 
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; 

Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. 


Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, 
Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam 
Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, 
Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call 
The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing 
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, 
Conscious and fearful of too deep u plunge. 
The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves 
To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye 
The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved 
To escape the impending famine, often scared 
As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 
Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 
Eemains to each, the search of sunny nook, 
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned 
To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
His wonted strut, and, wading at their head 
With well-considered steps, seems to resent 

His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. 

How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 

The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, 

Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? 

Earth yields them naught : the imprisoned worm is safe 

Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs 

"The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves." 

Lie covered close ; and berry-bearing thorns, 

That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), 

Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. 

The long protracted rigor of the year 

Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes 

Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, 

An instinct prompts ; self -buried ere they die. 

William Cowper. 

>-3S-£ -H 

- "■■ . "v.. OJ.' ; 


INTER, wilt thou never, never go? 
O Summer, but I weary for thy coming, 
Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, 
And frugal bees, laboriously humming. 
Now the east wind diseases the infirm. 
And I must crouch in corners from rough weather; 
Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm — 
Wtien the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, 
And the large sun dips red behind the hills. 
I. from my window, can behold this pleasure ; 
And the eternal moon, what time she fills 
Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, 
With queenly motions of a bridal mood, 
Through the white spaces of infinitude. 

David Gray. 

The key of Nature is laid at man's feet, because he is its divinely-constituted 




" Then lads and lassies all, be gay, 
For this is nature's holiday." 


|HE daisies peep from every field, 
And violets sweet their odor yield ; 
The purple blossom paints the thorn, 
And streams reflect the blush of morn. 
Then lads and lassies all, be gay, 
For this is nature's holiday. 

Let lusty Labor drop his flail, 
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail , 
The ox shall cease his neck to bow, 
And Clodden yield to rest the plough, 

Behold the lark in ether float, 
While rapture swells the liquid note ! 
What warbles he, with merry cheer? 
" Let love and pleasure ride the year! " 

Lo ! Sol looks down with radiant eye, 
And throws a smile around his sky; 
Embracing hill and vale and stream, 
And warming nature with his beam. 

John Wolcott, 

-s— "-wrz^z^ztMs-v- 


llgILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire? 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
Was nursed in whirling storms 
And cradled in the winds. 

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter': 

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 

Thee on this bank he threw, 

To mark his victory. 

In this low vale tbe promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head, 

Obscure and unobserved ; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 

Henry Kirke White. 

, IT came o'er my ear like the sweet South, 
■That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
Stealing and giving odors. 




pOW snow-drops cold and blue-eyed harebells 
! blend 

Their tender tears, as o'er the streams they 

The love-sick violet and the primrose pale 
Bow their sweet heads and whisper to the gale ; 
With secret sighs the virgin lily droops, 
And jealous cowslips hang their tawny cups. 
How the young rose, iu beauty's damask pride, 
Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride ; 
With honeyed lips enamored woodbines meet, 
Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet! 

Stay thy soft murmuring waters, gentle rill ; 
Hush, whispering winds ; ye rustling leaves, be still; 
Best, silver butterflies, your quivering wings ; 
Alight, ye beetles, from your airy rings; 
Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl, 
Bow your wide horns, your spiral trunks uncurl; 
Glitter, ye glow-worms, on your mossy beds ; 
Descend, ye spiders, on your lengthened threads; 
Slide here, ye horned snails, with varnished shells; 
Ye bee-nymphs, listen in your waxen cells ! 

Ekasmus Darwin. 


iBiWEET bird ! that sing'st away the early hours 
P^i Of winters past, or coming, void of care ; 

fWell pleased with delights which present are. 
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling' 
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, 

Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
What soul can he so sick which by thy songs 
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, 
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? 
Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise 
To airs of spheres, — yes, and to angels' lays. 

William Dkummond. 


pX genial spring, beneath the quivering shade, 
H Where cooling vapors breathe along the mead, 
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,, 
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand ; 
With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed. 
And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. 




jf IGEK, tiger, burning bright 
v In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

What the hammer, what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

" Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night." 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize thy fire? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand formed thy dread feet? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile his work to see? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright. 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

William Blake. 

->-f3— 92^-S" 1 - 

1|HE thrush derives its name from mistletoe berries, of which it is exceedingly fond. 

m It is famed for its clear, ringing, musical note, and sings loudest, and sweetest, and 
longest in storms; hence it is no mean teacher to man, whose song of gladness and grati- 
tude should rise to heaven — not only when his sky is clear, but when it is darkened with 
clouds, and the storm portends fearful disasters. 



" He clasps the crag with hooked hands." 


[|E clasps the crag with hooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
t 9p? i ' Hinged with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


gHAT a desolate place would be this world without a flower ! It would be a 
face without a smile, — a feast without a welcome! Are not flowers the 
stars of the earth? and are not our stars the flowers of heaven? 




^K>,L T T who the melodies of morn can tell? 

2§M The wild brook babbling down the mountain- 
fflJL side ; 

» The lowing herd; the sheepf old's simple bell; 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 

Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; 
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ; 
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 

O Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! 

" O Nature, how in every charm supreme. 

The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark; 
Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield, and, hark! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; 

O, for the voice and fire of seraphim, 
To sing thy glories with devotion due. 
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling erew 
Prom Pyrrho's maze and Epicurus' sty, 
And held high converse with the god-like few 
Who to the enraptured heart and ear and eye 
Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love and melody. 

James Beattie. 




|AY set on Norham's castled steep, 
; And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, 
And Cheviot's mountains lone ; 
The battled towers, the donjon keep, 
The loop-hole grates where captives weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep, 
In yellow lustre shone. 

The warriors on the turrets high, 
Moving athwart the evening sky, 

Seemed forms of giant height; 
Their armor, as it caught the rays, 

Above the gloomy portal arch, 
Timing his footsteps to a march, 
The warder kept his guard, 
Low humming, as he paced along, 
Some ancient border-gathering song. 

A distant tramping sound he hears ; 
He looks abroad, and soon appeal's, 
O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears 

Beneath a pennon gay : 
A horseman, darting from the crowd, 
Like lightning from a summer cloud, 

' Cheviot's mountains lone.' 

Plashed back again the western blaze 
In lines of dazzling light. 

St. George's banner, broad and gay, 

Now faded, as the fading ray 

Less bright, and less, was flung; 

The evening gale had scarce the power 

To wave it on the donjon tower, 
So heavily it hung. 

The scouts had parted on their search, 
The castle gates were barred ; 


Spurs on his mettled courser proud, 
Before the dark array. 

Beneath the sable palisade, 
That closed the castle barricade, 

His bugle-horn he blew ; 
The warder hasted from the wall, 
And warned the captain in the hall, 

For well the blast he knew; 
And joyfully that knight did call 
To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

"Nature is like an Mohan harp, a musical instrument whose tones are the re-echo of 
higher strings within us. 




, ,A» 

gEAR common flower, that growest beside the 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 

First pledge of blithesome May, 
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 

Which not the rich earth's ample round 

May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me 

Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 

'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 
Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : 

Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment 
In the white lily's breezy tent, 
His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, — 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, 

Where, as the breezes pass, 
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, — 

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue 
That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above, 
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 

Who, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 

And I, secure in childish pietj-, 
Listened as if 1 heard an angel sing 

With news from heaven, which he did bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 

Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart, 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, • 
Did we but pay the love we owe, 
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God's book. 

J. R. Lowell. 


IjilAY-STARS ! that ope your eyes with morn to 
J|f ' twinkle, 

JfL From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
4 And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation ! 

Ye matin worshipers ! who bending lowly 

Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless eye — 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high! 

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth 

And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal "hand, 

But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned ; 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply- 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
Its dome the sky. 

There- — as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God — 

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers, 

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor 

'• Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," 
Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, 
Your lore sublime! 



''• Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, " iu robes like ours; 
How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers ! " 

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist! 

With which thoupaintestNature's wide-spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori, 

Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
And second birth. 

' There — as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, ..." 

Not useless are ye, Flowers! though made for 
pleasure : 
Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, 

Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines! 

Horace Smith. 



hMfvATURE never did betray 


The heart that loved her. 'Tis her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy; for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With Tofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. 

Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain winds be free 
To blow against thee; and, in after years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure ; when the mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms; 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies : oh ! then, 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
And these my exhortations ! 

William Wordsworth. 




fTXARTH gets its price for what Earth gives us; 
*!* The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in; 
The priest has his fee who comes and shrives us ; 
We bargain for the graves we lie in; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with the whole soul's tasking; 

'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer, 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 

Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 

" Now is the high-tide of the 

And whatever of life hath 

ebbed away 
Comes flooding back, with a 

rippiy cheer." 

And what is so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays. 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisteu; 

And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings, 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best? 



Now is the high-tide of the year, 
And whatever of life hath ebbed away 

Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, 
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 

We are happy now because God wills it; 

No matter how barren the past may have been, 

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 

That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 

The breeze comes whispering in our ear 

That dandelions are blossoming near, 
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 

That the river is bluer than the sky, 

That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 

And if the breeze kept the good news back, 

For other couriers we should not lack; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everything is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 

'Tis the natural way of living : 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake, 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

James Russell Lowell. 

-fbS— gsM- 



«EE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my power, 
Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neehor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When tip-ward springing, blithe to greet 

The purpling east ! 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm; 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form! 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise ; 

But now the share uptears thy bed, 
And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruined, sink! 

E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, 
Shall be thy doom ! 

Robert Burns. 




'^ * "*" ^ — _ i -jJSSk-' 




a^-. ■ ^ jSjijl 

-j-— rf^-^jjg^s 

* Ll^A. . ^ ~-F JT ^^^^ amam 


=^^^== — ^ ---^-^;:?^j^ :i^fe=SI 


=■ -=— SMBBiawB^S vSBjSg 

(( I in these flowery meads would be, 
These crystal streams should solace me." 


IN" these flowery meads would be, 
These crystal streams should solace me ; 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise, 
I with my Angle would rejoice, 
Sit here, and see the turtle-dove, 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love : 

And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above 
Earth, or what poor mortals love : 
Thus free from lawsuits, and the noise 
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice: 

Or with my Bryan and a book, 

Loiter long days near Shawford Brook; 

" Or with my Bryan and a book, 
Loiter long days near Shawford Brook. 1 

Or on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty, please my mind 
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
And then wash off by April showers : 
Here hear my Kenna sing a song, 
There see a blackbird feed her young , 

Or a laverock build her nest; 
Here give my weary spirits rest, 

There sit by him, and eat my meat, 

There see the sun both rise and set; 

There bid good-morning to next day; 

There meditate my time away ; 
And angle on, and beg to have 
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

Izaak Walton. 




jfjH! the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, 

On my native hills it grows; 
I had rather see the bonny broom, 

Than the rarest flower that blows. 
Oh ! the yellow broom is blossoming, 

In my own dear country ; 
I never thought so small a thing 
As a flower my nerveless heart could wring, 

Or draw a tear from me. 

It minds me of my native hills, 

Clad in the heath and fen ; 
Of the green strath and the flowery brae, 

Of the glade and the rockless glen ; 

It minds me of dearer things than these — 

Of love with life entwined, 
Of humble faith on bended knees, 
Of home joys gone, and memories, 

Like sere leaves, left behind! 

It minds me of that blessed time, 

Of the friends so true to me, 
Of my warm-hearted Highland love, 

When the broom was the trysting-tree. 
I loathe this fair but foreign strand, 

With its fadeless summer bloom ; 
And I swear, by my own dear native land, 
Again on the heathy hills to stand, 

Where waves the yellow broom. 

Mary Howitt. 

'■ Still on thy banks so gayly green 

May numerous flocks and herds be seen." 


' Leven's banks, while free to rove 
And tune the rural pipe to love, 
I envied not the "happiest swain 
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. 
Pure stream, in whose transparent wave 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave, 
No torrents stain thy limpid source, 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
With white, round, polished pebbles spread; 
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; 
The springing trout, in speckled pride ; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 

The ruthless pike, intent on war; 
The silver eel, and mottled par; 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters make, 
By bowers of birch and groves of pine, 
And edges flowered with eglantine. 
Still on thy banks sogayly green 
May numerous flocks and herds be seen; 
And lasses chanting o'er the pail, 
And shepherds piping in the dale; 
And ancient faith that knows no guile, 
And industry imbrowned by toil, 
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, 
The blessings they enjoy to guard. 

Tobias George Sjiollet. 




IfDVANCrNG spring profusely spreads abroad 

*■'■»■» ! 

j^*V*s Flowers of all hues, with sweetest" fragrance 

/Sjifv stored ; 

it Where'er she treads Love gladdens over plain, 

Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train; 

Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies, 

Anticipating wealth from Summer skies ; 

All Nature feels her renovating sway; 

The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadows gay; 

And trees, and shrubs, no longer budding seen, 

Display the new-grown branch of lighter green ; 

On airy downs the idling shepherd lies, 

And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies. 




1 The sheep -fed pasture, and the meadows gay." 
«h a^eXT" 2 -4» 


^KHOTJ little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
sl¥fe Why takest thou its melancholy voice? 
Why with that boding cry 
$1 O'er the waves dost thou fly? 

j O, rather, bird, with me 

Through the fair land rejoice! 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
As driven by a beating storm at sea ; 
Thy cry is weak and scared, 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail — 
What does it bring to me? 

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, 
Hestless and sad ; as if, in strange accord 
With motion and with roar 
Of waves that drive to shore, 
One spirit did ye urge — ■ 
The Mystery— the Word. 

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall, 

Old ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead, 

From out thy gloomy cells, 

A tale of mourning tells, — 

Tells of man's woe and fall, 

His sinless glory fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
Thy spirit nevermore. 
Come, quit with me the. shore, 
For gladness and the light, 
Where birds of summer sing. 

Richard Henry Dana. 

fO daintie flowre or herbe thatgrowes on grownd, 
No arborett with painted blossoms drest 
And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd 
To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al 




"Hundreds have come to view 
My grandeur in decay." 


WAS a young fair tree ; 

Each spring with quivering green 

My boughs were clad, and far 

Down the deep vale a light 

Shone from me on the eyes 

Of those who pass'd, — a light 

That told of sunny days, 

And blossoms, and blue sky; 

For I was ever first 

Of all the grove to hear 

The soft voice underground 

Of the warm-working spring, 

And ere my brethren stirr'd 
Their sheatMd bud, the kine, 
And the kine's keeper, came 
Slow up the valley path, 
And laid them underneath 
My cool and rustling leaves, 
And I could feel them there 
As in the quiet shade 
They stood with tender thoughts, 
That passed along their life 
Like wings on a still lake, 
Blessing me ; and to God, 



The blessed God, who cares 
Eor all my little leaves, 
Went up the silent praise ; 
And I was glad with joy 
"Which life of laboring things 
El knows — the joy that sinks 
Into a life of rest. 
Ages have fled since then, 
But deem not my fierce trunk 
And scanty leafage serve 
No high behest ; my name 
Is sounded far and wide ; 
And in the Providence 
That guides the steps of men, 

Hundreds have come to view 
My grandeur in decay ; 
And there hath pass'd from me 
A quiet influence 
Into the minds of men : 
The silver head of age, 
The majesty of laws, 
The very name of God, 
And holiest things that are, 
Have won upon the heart 
Of human kind the more, 
Eor that I stand to meet 
With vast and bleaching trunk, 
The rudeness of the sky. 

Henry Alfoed. 



iwLOSE by the borders of the fringed lake, 
»@*x And on the oak's expanded bough, is seen, 

What time the leaves thepassing zephyrs shake, 
And gently murmur through the sylvan scene, 
The gaudy Pheasant, rich in varying dyes, 
That fade alternate, and alternate glow: 
Receiving now his color from the skies, 
And now reflecting back the watery bow. 
He flaps his wings, erects his spotless crest, 
His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray; 
He swells the lovely plumage of his breast, 
And glares a wonder of the Orient day. 


ciQTON'GSTER of the russet coat, 
&M Full and liquid is thy note ; 

• Plain thy dress, but great thy skill, 
Captivating at thy will. 

Small musician of the field, 
Near my bower thy tribute yield, 
Little servant of the ear, 
Ply thy task, and never fear. 

I will learn from thee to praise 
God, the Author of my days; 
I will learn from thee to sing, 
Christ, my Saviour and my King; 
Learn to labor with my voice, 
Make the sinking heart rejoice. 

^T last the golden oriental gate 
H Of greatest heaven 'gan to open fair, 
And Phoebus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate, 
Came dancing forth, shaking his dewy hair; 
And hurls his glistening beams through gloomy air. 

|HE blessed morn has come again ; 
The early gray 
Taps at the slumberer's window-pane, 

And seems to say, 
Break, break from the enchanter's chain 
Away, away I 

'Tis winter, yet there is no sound 

Along the air 
Of winds along their battle-ground ; 

But gently there 
The snow is falling, — all around 

How fair, how fair ! 

Ralph Hoyt. 




FLOCK of merry singing-birds were sporting But wait a week, till flowers are cheery, — wait a 

in the grove : week, and, ere yon many, 

Some were warbling cheerily, and some were Be sure of a house wherein to tarry ! 

Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, 

Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little 

mellow ; 
Follow, follow, follow, follow, o er the hill and in the 

hollow ! 
Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and 

now they fly; 
They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the 

middle, and wheel about, — 
With a "Phew, shew, Wadolincon ! listen to me, Bob- 

olincon ! — 
Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's 

speedily doing, 
That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover! 
" 'Tis you that would a-wooing go, down among the Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow 
rushes 0! me!" 

Wilson Flagg. 

making love : 
There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winter- 
seeble, Conquedle, — 
A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle, — 
Crying, ' : Phew, shew, Wadolincon, see, see, Bob- 
Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups ! 
I know the saucy chap, I see his shining cap 
Bobbing in the clover there, — see, see, see ! " 

Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree, 
Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his 

Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curvetting in the air, 
And merrify he turns about, and warns him to 

beware ! 

-i=sg— Ss=- 


|nn|HEBE is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
"^feo There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
•H" I love not man the less, but nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I maybe, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Lord Byron. 





SpSjpHEN winter came the land was lean and sere, 
Jnig.i There fell no snow, and oft from wild and 


jj In famished tameness came the drooping deer, 
And licked the waste about the troughs 

And though at spring we plowed and proffered seed, 
It lay ungermed, a pillage for the birds; 

And unto one low dam, in urgent need, 
"We daily drove the suppliant lowing herds. 

But now the fields to barren wastes have run, 
The dam a pool of oozing greenery lies, 

"Where knots of gnats hang reeling in the sun 
Till early dusk, when tilt the dragon-flies. 

Yet ere the noon, as brass the heaven turns, 
The cruel sun smites with unerring aim, 

The sight and touch of all things blinds and burns, 
And bare, hot hills seem shimmering into flame ! 

On either side the shoe-deep dusted lane 
The meagre wisps of fennel scorch to wire : 

Slow lags the team that drags an empty wain, 
And, creaking dry, a wheel runs off its tire. 

No flock upon the naked pasture feeds, 
No blithesome " Bob-White " whistles from the 
fence ; 

A gust runs crackling through the brittle weeds, 
And heat and silence seem the more intense! 

* A pillage for the birds.' 

All night the craw-fish deeper digs her wells, 
As shows the clay that freshly curbs them round; 

And many a random upheaved tunnel tells 
"Where ran the mole across the fallow ground. 

But ah, the stone-dumb dullness of the dawn, 
"When e'en the cocks too listless are to crow, 

And lies the world as from all life withdrawn, 
Unheeding and outworn and swooning low ! 

There is no dew on any greenness shed, 
The hard-baked earth is split along the walks, 

The very burs in stunted clumps are dead, 
And mullein-leaves drop withered from the stalks. 

On outspread wings a hawk, far poised on high, 
Quick swooping screams, and then is heard no 

The strident shrilling of a locust nigh 
Breaks forth, and dies in silence as before. 

No transient cloud o'erskims with flakes of shade 
The landscape hazed in dizzy gleams of heat; 

A dove's wing glances like a parried blade, 
And western walls the beams in torrents beat. 

So burning, low and lower still the sun, 
In fierce white fervor, sinks anon from sight, 

And so the dread, despairing day is done, 
And dumbly broods again the haggard night! 

J. P. Irvine. 



" ■" T^^-fe^- 

"The castled crag of Drachenfels 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding- Rhine.' 


SEE castled crag of Drachenfels 
^Mi Erowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 

Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hill all rich with blossomed trees, 

And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scattered cities crowning these, 

"Whose far white walls along them shine, 
Have strewed a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me. 

And peasant girls with deep-blue eyes, 

And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 

And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch in proud decay, 

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers : 
But one thing want these tanks of Rhine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine 



I send the lilies given to me : 

Though long before thy hand they touch 
I know that they must withered be, 

But yet reject them not as such; 
For I have cherished them as dear, 

Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 

When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gathered by the Bhine, 
And offered from my heart to thine ! 

The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchanted ground, 
And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round : 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear, 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Bhine. 

Lord Byron. 

- r a--s(^-E^- 




yT^jBOUD mountain giant, whose majestic face, 

From thy high watch-tower on the steadfast 

Looks calmly o'er the trees that throng thy base, 
How long hast thou withstood the tempest's 


How long hast thou looked down on yonder vale, 

Sleeping in sun before thee; 
Or bent thy ruffled brow to let the gale 

Steer its white, drifting sails just o'er thee? 
George Henry Boker. 

PpHERE is a serene and settled majesty in forest scenery that enters into the soul, and 
Kg dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations. The ancient and hered- 

fp itary groves, too, which everywhere abound, are most of them full of story. They 
«H» are haunted by the recollections of the great spirits of past ages who have sought 

relaxation among them from the tumult of arms or the toils of state, or have wooed the 

muse beneath their shade. 




.*fe a 

GRACIOUS breath of sunrise! divine air! 

That hrood'st serenely o'er the purpling hills ; 
O hlissful valley! nestling, cool and fair, 

In the fond arms of yonder murmurous rills, 

The fitful breezes, fraught with forest balm, 
Paint, in rare wafts of perfume, on my brow; 

The woven lights and shadows, rife with calm, 

Creep slantwise 'twixt the foliage, bough on bough 

" O blissful valley ! nestling, cool and fair, 
In the fond arms of yonder murmurous rills." 

Breathing their grateful measures to the sun; 
dew-besprinkled paths, that circling run 
Through sylvan shades and solemn silences, 
Once more ye bring my fevered spirit peace ! 

Uplifted heavenward, like a verdant cloud 
Whose rain is music, soft as love, or loud 
With jubilant hope, — for there, entranced, apart, 
The mock-bird sings, close, close to Nature's heart. 



Shy forms about the greenery, out and in, 
Flit 'neath the broadening glories of the morn; 

The squirrel — that quaint sylvan harlequin — 
Mounts the tall trunks; while swift as lightning, 

The deer-hound's voice, sweet as the golden bell's, 

Prolonged by flying echoes round the dells, 

And up the loftiest summits wildly borne, 

Blent with the blast of some keen huntsman's horn. 

The squirrel — that quaint sylvan harlequin." 

Of summer mists, from tangled vine and tree 
Dart the dove's pinions, pulsing vividly 
Down the dense glades, till glimmering far and gray 
The dusky vision softly melts away ! 

In transient, pleased bewilderment, I mark 
The last dim shimmer of those lessening wings, 

When from lone copse and shadowy covert, hark ! 
What mellow tongue through all the woodland 

And now the checkered vale is left behind; 

I climb the slope, and reach the hill-top bright; 
Here, in bold freedom, swells a sovereign wind, 

Whose gusty prowess sweeps the pine-clad height; 
While the pines, — dreamy Titans roused from sleep,— 
Answer with mighty voices, deep on deep 
Of wakened foliage surging like a sea ; 
And o'er them smiles Heaven's calm infinity! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 


|E valleys low, where the mild whispers rise 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing 

On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks : 
Throw hither all your quaint enameled eyes, 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 

The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears. 

John Milton. 



Oft have I walked these woodland paths." 




?T have I walked these woodland paths, 
Without the blest foreknowing 

That underneath the withered leaves 
The fairest buds were growing. 

To-day the south wind sweeps away 
The types of autumn's splendor, 

And shows the sweet arbutus flowers, 
Spring's children, pure and tender. 

O prophet-flowers ! — with lips of bloom, 

Out-vying in your beauty 
The pearly tints of ocean shells, — 

Ye teach me faith and duty ! 

"Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to say, 
" With love's divine foreknowing, 

That where man sees but withered leaves, 
God sees sweet flowers growing." 


Nsg— Bs 


WESTER, ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
But urged by storms along its slippery way, 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 

And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west; but kindly still 
Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease, 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 
I crown thee king of intimate delights, 
Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 

William Cowpek. 




iplERE'S the garden she walked across, 
■111 Arm in my arm, such a short while since : 
■^3?" Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss 

I § Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. 

I I She must have reached the shrub ere she turned, 
As hack with that murmur the wicket swung ; 

Eor she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, 
To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Down this side of the gravel-walk 

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
Boses, ranged in valiant row, 

I will never think that she passed you by! 
She loves you, noble roses, I know; 

But yonder see where the rock-plants lie ! 

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, — ■ 

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 

Its soft meandering Spanish name. 
What a name! was it love or praise? 

Speech half asleep, or song half awake? 
I must learn Spanish one of these days, 

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 

Boses, if I live and do well, 

I may bring her one of these days, 
To fix you fast with as fine a spell, — 

Pit you each with his Spanish phrase. 
But do not detain me now, for she lingers 

There, like a sunshine over the ground ; 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 

Flower, you Spaniard! look that you grow not, — ■ 

Stay as you are, and be loved forever! 
Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not, — 

Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never! 
For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they turn, and down they nestle : 

Is not the dear mark still to he seen? 

Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

Whither I follow her, beauties flee. 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breathed it with me? 
Come, bud! show me the least of her traces; 

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall : 
Ah ! you may flout and turn up your faces, — 

Boses, you are not so fair, after all ! 

BOBEltT Bkowhing. 


jj|PBrN'G, with that nameless pathos in the air 
■111 Which dwells with all things fair, 

Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee, 

And there's a look about the leafless bowers, 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
Of winter in the land, 

Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, i 
Flushed by the season's dawn; 

Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
That age to childhood bind, 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 
The brown of autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth 

The crocus breaking earth; 

And near the snow-drop's tender white and green, 

The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
Along the budding grass, • 
And weeks go by, before the enamored South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there's sense of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of morn ; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, 
If from a beech's heart 

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 
" Behold me! I am May! " 
* * * 

Henry Timeod. 




i"Y^O'. here the gentle lark, weary of rest, The sun ariseth in his majesty; 

^§■§1 From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, Who doth the world so gloriously behold, 

ft 7©\ 3 And wakes the morning, from whose silver That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold. 

breast William Shakespeare. 

•"" + ^2^ 4» 


||§|0WARD, of here 
Hh4' In whose lazy m 

roic size, 
lazy muscles lies 
•|" Strength we fear, and yet despise; 
i Savage, — whose relentless tusks 

Are content with acorn husks ; 
Robber, — whose exploits ne'er soared 

O'er the bee's or squirrel's hoard; 
Whiskered chin, and feeble nose, 
Claws of steel, on baby toes. — 
Here, in solitude and shade, 
Shambling, shuffling, plantigrade^ 
Be thy courses undismayed! 



Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 
Let thy rude, half-human tread 

Point to hiddeu Indian springs, 
Lost in fern and fragrant grasses 

Hovered o'er by timid wings. 
Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 
Where the wild bee holds her sweets- 
Epicurean retreats, 
Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 


In thy fat-jowled deviltry, 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee ; 
Thou may'st levy tithe and dole; 

Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, 
From the pilgrim taking toll j 

Match thy cunning with his fear, 
Eat and drink and have thy till ; 
Yet remain an outlaw still! 

Bket Haete. 


FAINT, delicious spring-time violet! 

Thine odor, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let 

A thought of sorrow free. 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 

Blows through that open door 
Tne sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low 

And sadder than of yore. 

It comes afar, from that beloved place, 

And that beloved hour, 
When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 

The lark sings o'er my head, 
Drowned in the sky — O, pass, ye visions, pass! 

I would that I were dead ! — 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door, 

From which I ever flee? 
O vanished joy! O love, that art no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be ! 

O violet! thy odor through my brain 

Hath searched and stung to grief 

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 
Thy velvet leaf. 

William Wetmoee Story. 


M»LEAE, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
SISI With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
<^P Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers j f et fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more: 


The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 

Lord Byron. 


Ip CARE not, Fortune, what you me deny : 
1*5 You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; 
X You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
» Through which Aurora shows her brightening 


You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve; 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
And I their toys to the great children leave; 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 

James Thomson. 






HE cock hath crowed. I hear the doors un- 
barred ; 
Down to the grass-grown porch my way I 
And hear, beside the well within the yard, 
Full many an ancient quacking, splashing 

The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load, 
Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road. 

A humid polish is on all the leaves, — 
The birds flit in and out with varied notes, 

The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves, 
A partridge whistle through the garden floats, 

While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries, 

As red and gold flush all the eastern skies. 

" The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves." 

And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen,— all 
Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call. 

The dew is thick upon the velvet grass, 
The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops, 

And as the cattle from the enclosure pass, 
Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops 

Up comes the sun! Through the dense leaves a spot 
Of splendid light drinks up the dew; the breeze 

Which late made leafy music, dies ; the day grows hot, 
And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees : 

The burnished river like a sword-blade shines, 

Save where 't is shadowed by the solemn pines. 





p p 




Over the farm is brooding silence now, — 
No reaper's song, no raven's clangor harsh, 

No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cow, 
No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh, 

No bragging cock from littered farmyard crows, — 

The scene is steeped in silence and repose. 

A trembling haze hangs over all the fields, — 

The panting cattle in the river stand, 
Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields, 

It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy land ; 
So hushed is all beneath the Summer's spell, 
I pause and listen for some faint church-bell. 

The leaves are motionless, the song-birds mute; 

The very air seems somnolent and sick : 
The spreading branches with o'er-ripened fruit 

Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick, 
While now and then a mellow apple falls 
With a dull thud within the orchard's walls. 

The sky has but one solitary cloud 

Like a dark island in a sea of ligh„, 
The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed 

Seem fairly dancing in my dazzled sight, 
While over yonder road a dusty haze 
Grows luminous beneath the sun's fierce blaze. 


That solitary cloud grows dark and wide, 
While distant thunder rumbles in the air, — 

A fitful ripple breaks the river's tide, — 

The lazy cattle are no longer there, 
But homeward come, in long procession slow, 
With many a bleat and many a plaintive low. 

Darker and wider spreading o'er the west 
Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form, 

And mirrored turrets on the river's breast, 
Tell in advance the coming of a storm, — 

Closer and brighter glares the lightning's flash, 

And louder, nearer sounds the thunder's crash. 

The air of evening is intensely hot, 
The breeze feels heated as it fans my brows, — 

Now sullen rain-drops patter down like shot, 
Strike in the grass, or rattle mid the boughs. 

A sultry lull, and then a gust again, — 

And now I see the thick advancing rain ! 

It fairly hisses as it drives along, 

And where it strikes breaks up in silvery spray 
As if 't were dancing to the fitful song 

Made by the trees, which twist themselves and sway 
In contest with the wind, that rises fast 
Until the breeze becomes a furious blast. 

And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled, 
The clouds lie piled up in the splendid west, 

In massive shadow tipped with purplish red, 
Crimson, or gold. The scene is one of rest; 

And on the bosom of yon still lagoon 

I see the crescent of the pallid moon. 

James Barron Hope. 

" And on the bosom of yon still lagoon 
I see the crescent of the pallid moon." 



S|ICY, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye, 
Isp With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful; the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 

Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest. 
But where of ye, O tempests ! is the goal? 
Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest? 

Lord Byron. 




HWEET is the voice that calls 
From babbling waterfalls 
In meadows where the downy seeds 
are flying; 
And soft the breezes blow, 
And eddying come and go 
In faded gardens where the rose is 

Among the stuhbled corn 

The blithe quail pipes at morn, 
The merry partridge drums in hidden places, 

And glittering insects gleam 

Above the reedy stream, 
Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. 

At eve, cool shadows fall 

Across the garden wall, 
And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; 

And pearly vapors lie 

Along the eastern sky, 
Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. 

Ah, soon on field and hill 

The wind shall whistle chill. 
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, 

To fly from frost and snow, 

And seek for lands where blow 
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. 

The cricket chirps all day, 

"O fairest summer, stay! " 
The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; 

The wild fowl fly afar 

Above the foamy bar, 
And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. 



Now comes a fragrant breeze 

Through the dark cedar-trees, 
And round about my temples fondly lingers, 

In gentle playfulness, 

Like to the soft caress 
Bestowed in happier days by loving Angers. 

Yet, though a sense of grief 

Comes with the falling leaf, 
And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, 

In all my autumn dreams 

A future summer gleams, 
Passing the fairest glories of the present! 

George Arnold. 


p WILL not have the mad Clytie, 
ft* Whose head is turned by the sun ; 
If" The tulip is a courtly queen, 
I Whom, therefore, I will shun: 
I The cowslip is a country wench, 

The violet is a nun ; — 
But I will woo the dainty rose, 
The queen of every one. 

The pea is but a wanton witch, 
In too much haste to wed, 

And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
The wolfsbane I should dread ; 

-l3— sg— Ej- 

Nor will I dreary rosemarye, 

That always mourns the dead ; 
But I will woo the dainty rose, 

With her cheeks of tender red. 

The lily is all in white, like a saint, 

And so is no mate for me ; 
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, 

She is of such low degree ; __ 
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves; 

And the broom's betrothed to the bee ; 
But I will plight with the dainty rose, 

For fairest of all is she, 

Thomas Hood. 


sSE stars ! which are the poetry of heaven, 

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven 
That in our aspirations to be great 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 

And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them- 
selves a star. 

Lord Byron. 



The hollow winds begin to blow.' : 


•jfFRHE hollow winds begin to blow ; 
sai^s The clouds look black, the glass is low, 
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, 
And spiders from their cobwebs peep. 
Last night the sun went pale to bed, 

The moon in halos hid her head; 

The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 

For see, a rainbow spans the sky! 

The walls are damp, the ditches smell, 

Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. 

Hark how the chairs and tables crack ! 

Old Betty's nerves are on the rack; 

Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry, 
The distant hills are seeming nigh. 
How restless are the snorting swine ! 
The busy flies disturb the kiue, 
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings, 
The cricket, too, how sharp he sings! 
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, 
Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws; 
Through the clear streams the fishes rise, 
And nimbly catch the incautious flies. 
The glow-worms, numerous and light, 
Illumed the dewy dell last night; 



At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 
Hopping and crawling o'er the green; 
The whirling dust the wind obeys, 
And in the rapid eddy plays ; 
The frog has changed his yellow vest, 
And in a russet coat is dressed. 
Though June, the air is cold and still, 
The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill ; 

My dog, so altered in his taste, 

Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast; 

And see yon rooks, how odd their flightl 

They imitate the gliding kite, 

And seem precipitate to fall, 

As if they felt the piercing ball. 

'T will surely rain ; I see with sorrow, 

Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. 

Edward Jenner. 

"Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow." 


WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils, 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering, dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the Milky Way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company; 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 

Eor oft, when on my couch I lie, 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth. 


16 l J 


jfWAS morn, 
(Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) 
Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling 

We bounded, and the white waves round the prow 
In murmurs parted. Varying as we go, 
Lo, the woods open, and the rocks retire, 


Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire 
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. 
Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair, 
Frowns the bleak cliff ; there on the woodland's side 
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide ; 
While Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, 
Would wish to linger many a summer's day, 
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 

William Lisle Bowles, 

"Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair, 
Frowns the bleak cliff." 

pliN itself the ocean panorama is very grand. It would be hard to exaggerate the beauty 
HI of both sea and sky, especially in and near the tropics. The sky near the horizon 
was of pale blue, and often the clouds all round the sea line of a light pink tint, and the 
sea near the ship like an amethyst or the wing of some tropical bird. In those rare times 
when the sea was calm, the motion of the ship made it flow in large sheets as of some oily 
liquid; or, again, like the blue steel of some polished cuirass. 




. JJEAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! 
11*1 Thou messenger of spring ! 
■^p™ Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 
? And woods thy welcome sing. 

Soon as the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear. 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the wood 
To pull the primrose gay, 

Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, 
And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom, 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No winter in thy year ! 

O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! 

We'd make, with joyful wing, 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Attendants on the spring. 

John Logan. 



|LAYER of winter, art thou here again? 

O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh ! 

The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, 

Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. 

Welcome, O March ! whose kindly days and dry 
Make April ready for the throstle's song, 
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong! 

Yea, welcome, March ! and though I die ere June, 
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, 
Striving to swell the burden of the tune 
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, 

Unmindful of the past or coming days; 
Who sing, " O joy! a new year is begun! 
What happiness to look upon the sun! " 

O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss, 
But Death himself, who, crying solemnly, 
Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness, 
Bids us, "Rejoice! lest pleasureless ye die. 
Within a little time must ye go by. 
Stretch forth your open hands, and, while ye live, 
Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give." 

William Morris. 




aHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise 
And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke, 

I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys 
And sit me down beside this little brook ; 

The waters have a music to mine ear 
It glads me much to hear. 

It is a quiet glen, as you may see, 
Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, 

That spread their giant branches, broad and 
The silent growth of many centuries ; 

And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, 
A sabbath of the woods. 

A gracious couch — the root of an old oak 
Whose branches yield it moss and canopy — 

Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke 
Secure, shall never be resigned by me; 

It hangs above the stream that idly flies, 
Heedless of any eyes. 

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, 
Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour 

While every sense on earnest mission sent, 
Eeturns, thought-laden, back with bloom and 

Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, 
A profitable toil. 

" It is a quiet fflen, as you mav see, 
Shut in from all intrusion by the trees." 

Few know its quiet shelter, — none, like me, 
Do seek it out with such a fond desire, 

Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree, 
And listening as the voiceless leaves respire, — 

When the far-traveling breeze, done wandering, 
Eests here his weary wing. 

And all the day, with fancies ever new, 

And sweet companions from their boundless store, 
Of merry elves bespangled all with dew, 

Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, 
Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, 

I fling the hours away. 

And still the waters, trickling at my feet, 
Wind on their way with gentlest melody, 

Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, 
Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by,— 

Yet not so rudely as to send one sound 
Through the thick copse around. 

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest 
Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, 

Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed 
On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries, — 

And with awakened vision upward bent, 
I watch the firmament. 



How like its sure and undisturbed retreat — 
Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm — 

To the pure waters trickling at my feet 
The bending trees that overshade my form ! 

So far as sweetest things of earth may seem 
Like those of which we dream. 

Such, to my mind, is the philosophy 

The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight, 
Sails far into the blue that spreads on high, 

Until I lose him from my straining sight, — 
With a most lofty discontent to fly 

Upward, from earth to sky. 

William Gilmqke Simms. 

" And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine." 

|rn^HE mellow year is hasting to its close; 
s-Ars The little birds have almost sung their last, 
*W- Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — ' 
J4 That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;— 
The patient beauty of the scentless rose, 
Oft with the Morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, 
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, 
And makes a little summer where it grows : 


In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 
The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, 
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine. 

Hartley Coleeidge. 

fflfr seems as if it were Nature's ain Sabbath, and the verra waters were at rest. Look 
dSW down upon the vale profound, and the stream is without motion ! No doubt, if you 
were walking along the bank, it would be murmuring with your feet. But here — here up 
amang the hills, we can imagine it asleep, even like the well within reach of my staff. 




fARIOUS and vast, sublime in all its forms, 
When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by 
< ^~ > storms ; 

Its colors changing, when from clouds and sun 
Shades after shades upon the surf ace run ; 
Embrowned and horrid now, and now serene 
In limpid blue and evanescent green; 
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie, 
Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye ! 

Be it the summer noon ; a sandy space 
The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; 
Then just the hot and stony beach above, 
Light, twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; 3 
(For, heated thus, the warmer air ascends, 
And with the cooler in its fall contends) . 
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, 
Then slowly sinking ; curling to the strand, 
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand, 

Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, 
And back return in silence, smooth and slow, 

" Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide 
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide." 

" The petrel, in the troubled way, 

Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray.' 



Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide 

On the still sea, urged solely by the tide. 


View now the winter storm ! Ahove, one cloud, 
Black and unhroken, all the skies o'ershroud; 
The unwieldy porpoise, through the day before, 
Had rolled in view of boding men on shore; 
And sometimes hid and sometimes showed his form, 
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. 

Raking the rounded flints, which ages past 
Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last. 

Far off, the petrel, in the troubled way, 
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray; 
She rises often, often drops again, 
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. 

High o'er the restless deep, above the reach 
Of gunner's hope, vast flights of wild-ducks 
stretch ; 

-Their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge." 

All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam 
The breaking billows cast the flying foam 
Upon the billows rising — all the deep 
Is restless change — the waves, so swelled and steep, 
Breaking and sinking and the sunken swells, 
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : 
But nearer land you may the billows trace, 
As if contending in their watery chase ; 
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, 
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; 
Curled as they come, they strike with furious force, 
And then, reflowing, take their grating course, 

Far as the eye can glance on either side, 
In a broad space and level line they glide; 
All in their wedge-like figures from the north, 
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. 

Inshore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, 
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; 
Oft in the rough, opposing blast they fly 
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, 
While to the storm they give their weak, complain- 
ing cry; 
Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, 
And in the restless ocean dip for rest. 




. A- . 

|HE midges dance aboon the burn; 

The dews begin to fa' ; 
The pairtricks down the rushy holm 

Set up their e'ening ca'. 
Now loud and clear the blackbirds sang 

Kings through the briery shaw, 
While, flitting gay, the swallows play 

Around the castle wa\ 

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky 

The mavis mends her lay ; 
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains 

To charm the lingering day ; 

While weary yeldrins seem to wail 

Their little nestlings torn, 
The merry wren, frae den to den, 

Gaes jinking through the thorn. 

The roses fauld their silken leaves, 

The fox-glove shuts its bell; 
The honeysuckle and the birk 

Spread fragrance through the dell. 
Let others crowd the giddy court 

Of mirth and revelry, 
The simple joys that Nature yields 

Are dearer far to me. 

Robert Tannahill. 


MAKER of sweet poets ! dear delight 
Of this fair world and all its gentle livers ; 
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 
Mingler with leaves, and dew, and tumbling 
1 streams ; 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams ; 
Lover of loneliness and wandering, 
Of upcast eye and tender pondering ! — 
Thee must I praise above all other glories 
That smile on us to tell delightful stories; 
For what has made the sage or poet write, 
But the fair paradise of Nature's light? 
In the calm grandeur of a sober line 
We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 

And when a tale is beautifully staid, 

We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade ; 

When it is moving on luxurious wings, 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings ; 

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, 

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; 

O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-brier, 

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; 

While at our feet the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles; 

So that we feel uplifted from the world, 

Walking upon the white clouds wreathed and curled. 

John Keats. 


|'ER all the land, a vision rare and splendid — 
(What time the summer her last glory yields!) 
I saw the reapers, by tall wains attended, 
Wave their keen scythes across the ripened 
fields ; 
At each broad sweep the glittering grain-stalks parted, 

With all their sunniest lustres earthward bowed, 
But still those tireless blade-curves flashed and darted 
Like silvery lightnings from a golden cloud. 

Then burst from countless throats in choral thunder 

A strain that rose toward the sapphire dome ; — 
Hushed in his lay, the mock -bird heard with wonder 

The resonant gladness of their "Harvest Home," 
And Echo to far fells and forest fountains 

Bore the brave burden that was half divine, 
While the proud crested eagle of the mountains 

Sent back an answer from his eyried pine. 

And still, the tireless steel gleamed in and over 

The bearded cohorts of the rye and wheat, 
Till in long swathes, o'ertopped by perfumed 

They slept supinely at the laborer's feet; 
And still that harvest song rolled en, till even 

Looked wanly forth from night's encircling bars, — 
When, like a pearl of music, lost in Heaven 

Its sweetness melted in a sea of stars. 

O favored land ! thy bursting barns are laden 

With such fair offspring of thine opulent sod, 
At length thou art a rich Arcadian Adenne, 

Lapped in the bounteous benison of God. 
Pomona vies with Ceres ; but less sober, 

Trips down her orchard ways at gleeful ease, 
And in the luminous sunsets of October, 

Shakes the flushed fruitage from her rustling trees. 



And far as fancy's kindling eyes can follow 

The harvest-landscapes in their hale increase, 
O'er radiant hill-top, and through shadowy hollow, 

Gleams the white splendor of the Plant of Peace. 
Its bolls, wind-wafted on their airy stations, 

Hold spells of subtlest service, deftly furled — 
Soon to unfold through marvellous transformations, 

And weave their warmth and comfort 'round the 
world ! 

Ah ! Christ be praised ; where once o'er wold and 

Flashed back the fury of war's blood-red glare — 
Where once the shrieks of fratricidal slaughter 

Died shuddering on the hot, volcanian air — 

Only the breeze, in frolic charge, advances, 
To stir the tides, or win the foliaged pass; 

The sunbeams only smite with wavering lances 
The frail battalions of the leaves and grass ! 

Then let our hearts — 'ere grateful fervor falters — 

To Him, whose love fulfills all pure desire, 
Upwaft, as borne from bright, ethereal altars, 

The glow and grace of sacrificial Are. 
For Plenty smiles alike on cot and palace. 

And Peace, so long to us an unknown guest, 
Pours from the depths of her enchanted chalice 

That heavenly wine which brings the nations rest I 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



||||PIBIT that breathest through my lattice : thou 
That coolest the twilight of the sultry day! 
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 
Biding all day the wild blue waves till now, 

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest; 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, 
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast. 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the 

" Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
Roughening- their crests, and scattering high their spray, 
And swelling the white sail." 

Nor I alone, — a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fullness of delight; 

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; 

And languishing to hear thy welcome sound, 
Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. 

Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, — 

God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! 

Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway 
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone, 

That they who near the churchyard willows stray, 
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, 

May think of gentle souls that passed away, 
Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown, 

Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, 

And gone into the boundless heaven again. 



The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee : thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go, — but the circle of eternal change, 
Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more. 

Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


'* Where the giraffes browse 

With stately head, among the forest boughs." 


fHERE the stupendous mountains of the moon 
Cast their broad shadows o'er the realms of 
£gi|!S noon; 

<^- From rude Caffraria, where the giraffes browse 
With stately heads among the forest boughs, 
To Atlas, where Numidian lions glow 
With torrid fire beneath eternal snow; 

From Nubian hills that hail the dawn of day, 
To Guinea's coast, where evening fades away; 
Eegions immense, unsearchable, unknown, 
Bask in the splendor of the solar zone, — 
A world of wonders, where creation seems 
No more the works of Nature, but her dreams. 



Great, wild and beautiful, beyond control, 

She reigns in all the freedom of her soul; 

Where none can check her bount}' when she showers 

O'er the gay wilderness her fruits and flowers ; 

None brave her fury when, with whirlwind breath 

And earthquake step, she walks abroad with death. 

O'er boundless plains she holds her fiery flight, 

In terrible magnificence of light; 

At blazing noon pursues the evening breeze, 

Through the dim gloom of realm-o'ershadowing trees ; 

Her thirst at Nile's mysterious fountain quells, 

Or bathes in secresy where Niger swells, 

An inland ocean, on whose jasper rocks 

AVith shells and sea-flower wreaths she binds her 

She sleeps on isles of velvet verdure, placed 
Midst sandy gulphs and shoals for ever waste; 
She guides her countless flocks to cherished rills, 
And feeds her cattle on a thousand hills. 

James Montgomery. 

' Her thirst at Nile's mysterious fountain quells. 1 


ITViP down upon the northern shore, 
Hll; O sweet new year, delaying long . 
'ZfF' Thou doest expectant Nature wrong; 
J4> Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 

Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping wells of fire. 

O thou, new year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud, 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

SXTjRHE SKY — sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same 
i^Ars for two moments together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its 
tenderness, almost divine in its infinity — its appeal to what is immortal in us is as distinct 
as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal, is essential. 




1 snows ! " cries the School-boy, " Hurrah ! " and 
his shout 
Is ringing through parlor and hall, 
While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out, 

And his playmates have answered his call ; 
It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy; 
Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow. 
Like the rapture that throbs iu the pulse of the boy, 

As he gathers his treasures of snow; 
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, 
While health, and the riches of nature, are theirs. 

And nearer and nearer his soft cushioned chair 
Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame ; 

He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air, 
Lest it wither his delicate frame ; 

Oh ! small is the pleasure existence can give, 

When the fear we shall die only proves that we live! 

"It snows! " cries the Traveler, " Ho! " and the word 
Has quickened his steed's lagging pace ; 

The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard, 
Unf elt the sharp drif t in his face ; 

" Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow, 
Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy, 
As he gathers his treasures of snow." 

■" It snows !" sighs the Imbecile, "Ah!" and his 

Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight : 
While, from the pale aspect of nature in death 

He tarns to the blaze of his grate ; 

For bright through the tempest his own home 
Ay, through leagues intervened he can see ; ■ 
There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table 
And his wife with her babes at her knee; 



Blest thought! how it lightens the grief -laden hour, 
That those we love clearest are safe from its power ! 

" It snows! " cries the Belle, "Dear, how lucky! " and 
Erom her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; 
Like the first'rose of summer, her dimpled cheek 
While musing on sleigh-ride and ball : 
There are visions of conquests, of splendor, and 
Floating over each drear winter's day; 
But the tintiugs of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth, 
Will melt like the snow-flakes away : 

Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss ; 
That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this. 

"It snows! " cries the Widow, "Oh God! " and her 
Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; 
Its burden you'll read, in her tear-swollen eyes, 

On her cheek sunk with fasting and care. 
'Tis night, and her fatherless ask her for bread, 
But " He gives the young ravens their food," 
And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to 
And she lays on her last chip of wood. 
Poor sufferer ! that sorrow thy God only knows ; 
'Tis a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows I 

Mrs. S. J. Hale. 


"Till the victorious Orb rose unattended, 
And every billow was his mirror splendid! 



^TJIEX die mild weather came, 
And set the sea on flame, 
How often would I rise before the sun, 

And from the mast behold 
The gradual splendors of the sky unfold 
Ere the first line of disk had yet begun, 
Above the horizon's arc, 

To show its flaming gold, 
Across the purple dark ! 

One perfect dawn how well I recollect, 
When the whole east was flecked 
With flashing streaks and shafts of amethyst, 
While a light crimson mist 

Went up before the mounting luminary, 
And all the strips of cloud began to vary 
Their hues, and all the zenith seemed to ope 
As if to show a cope beyond the cope ! 

How reverently calm the ocean lay 

At the bright birth of that celestial day ! 

How every little vapor, robed in state, 

Would melt and dissipate 
Before the augmenting ray, 

Till the victorious Orb rose unattended, 

And every billow was his mirror splendid ! 

Epes Sargent, 




lARTH, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood ! 
If our great mother have imbued my soul 
With aught of natural piety to feel 
Your love, and recompense the boon with 

If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, 
With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, 
And solemn midnight's tingling silentness; 
If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood, 

And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns 

Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs ; 

If Spring's voluptuous pantings, when she breathes 

Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me ; 

If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 

I consciously have injured, but still loved 

And cherished these my kindred ; — then forgive ' 

This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw 

No portion of your wonted favor now ! 

Pekcy Bysshe Shelley. 

^sxr- 2 - 


APE of storms, thy spectre fled, 
P See, the angel Hope, instead, 

Lights from heaven upon thine head; — 

And where Table-mountain stands; 
Barbarous hordes from desert sands, 
Bless the sight with lifted hands. 

St. Helena's dungeon-keep 
Scowls defiance o'er the deep ; 
There a warrior's relics sleep. 

Who he was, and how he fell, 

Europe, Asia, Afric, tell ; 

On that theme all time shall dwell. 

James Montgomery. 

fHAT is there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, unfathomable 
sea? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm, gently-heaving, silent 
sea? What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power 
— resistless, overwhelming power — is its attribute and its expression, whether in the 
careless, conscious grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. 



"To climb the trackless mountain all unseen 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean." 


3lY;0 sit on rook?, to muse o'er flood and fell, 

&A^ To slowly trace flic forest's shady scene. 

that own not man's dominion 

-4^ Where things 
"^ dwell, 

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean, — 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms and view her stores 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; 
Minions of splendor, shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flattered, followed, sought and sued; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 

Lord Byron. 





" When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, 
Calls for the lily-wristed morn." 


:WEET country life, to such unknown, 
Whose lives are others', not their own! 
But serving courts and cities, be 
Less happy, less enjoying thee. 
Thou never plough'd the ocean's foam, 
To seek and bring rough pepper home ; 
Nor to the eastern Ind dost rove, 
To bring from thence the scorched clove ; 

Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest, 
Bring'st home the ingot from the west. 
No ; thy ambition's masterpiece 
Flies no thought higher than a fleece ; 
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear 
All scores, and so to end the year; 
But walk'st about thy own dear grounds. 
Not craving others' larger bounds ; 




For well thou know'st 'tis not th' extent 
Of land makes life, but sweet content. 
When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, 
Calls for the lily-wristed morn, 
Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, 
Which, though well soil'd, yet thou dost know 
That the best compost for the lands 
Is the wise master's feet and hands. 
There, at the plough, thou flnd'st thy team, 
With a hind whistling there to them; 
And cheer'st them up by singing how 
The kingdom's portion is the plough. 
This done, then to th' enamell'd meads 
Thou go'st; and, as thy foot there treads, 
Thou seest a present god-like power 
Imprinted in each herb and flower ; 

For sports, for pageantry, and plays, 
Thou hast thy eves and holy-days, 
On which the young men and maids meet 
To exercise their dancing feet; 
Tripping the comely country round, 
With daffodils and daisies crown'd. 
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast, 
Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced; 
Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun ale, 
Thy shearing feast, which never fail; 
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl, 
That's tost up after fox i' th' hole; 
Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-night kings 
And queens, and Christmas revellings; 
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, 
And no man pays too dear for it. 

" And find'st their bellies there as full 
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool.' 

And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine, 

Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. 

Here thou behold'st thy large, sleek neat, 

Unto the dewlaps up in meat; 

And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer, 

The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near, 

To make a pleasing pastime there. 

These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks 
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox ; 
And flnd'st their bellies there as full 
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool ; 
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill, 
A shepherd piping on the hill. 

To these thou hast thy time to go, 

And trace the hare in the treacherous snow : 

Thy witty wiles to draw, and get 

The lark into the trammel net; 

Thou hast thy cock rood, and thy glade, 

To take the precious pheasant made ! 

Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then, 

To catch the pilfering birds, not men. 

O happy life, if that their good 

The husbandmen but understood ! 

Who all the day themselves do please, 

And younglings, with such sports as these; 

And, lying down, have nought t' affright 

Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night. 

Robert Hekbick. 



" Around rny ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew." 


rTJrfrJSTE be a cot beside the hill; 
elf&pS A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
^fflv -^ willowy brook that turns a mill 
T With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow oft beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; 

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees, 
Where first our marriage vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

Samuel Rogers. 

|AJST anything be so elegant as«to have few wants and serve them one's self? Parched 
corn, and a house with one apartment, that I may be free of all perturbations, that 
I may be serene and docile to what the mind shall speak, and girt and road-ready for the 
lowest mission of knowledge or goodness, is frugality for gods and heroes. 




iPS§OD ma( j e the country and man made the town. 
Ifti! What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts 
X That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
» That life holds out to all, should most abound 
And least be threatened in the fields and groves? 
Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about 
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue 
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes 
But such as art contrives, possess ye still 
Your element; there only can ye shine; 
There only minds like yours can do no harm. 
Our groves were planted to console at noon 
The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve 

The moonbeam, sliding softly in between 
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, 
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare 
The splendor of your lamps ; they but eclipse 
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 
Our more harmonious notes : the thrush departs 
Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. 
There is a public mischief in your mirth ; 
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, 
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, 
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, 
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, 
A mutilated structure, soon to fall. 

William Cowpee. 


NryROMthe old squire's dwelling, gloomy and grand, 

]JC% Stretching away on either hand, 

/^\ Lie fields of broad and fertile land. 


W Acres on acres everywhere, 

f The look of smiling plenty wear, 

t That tells of the master's thoughtful care. 

Sleek cows down the pasture take their ways, 
Or lie in the shade through the sultry days, 
Idle, and too full-fed to graze. 

Ah ! you might wander far and wide, 
Nor find a spot in the country's side 
So fair to see as our valley's pride! 

" And here you will find on everv hand 
Walks and fountains and statues grand, 
And trees from many a foreign land." 

Here blossoms the clover, white and red, 
Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread, 
And the millet lifts her golden head ; 

And, ripening, closely neighbored by 
Eields of barley and pale white rye, 
The yellow wheat grows strong and high. 

And near, untried through the summer days, 
Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce blaze, 
Stand the bearded ranks of the maize. 

Straying over the side of the hill, 
The sheep run to and fro at will, 
Nibbling of short green grass their fill. 

How, just beyond, if it will not tire 
Your feet to climb this green knoll higher, 
We can see the pretty village spire ; 

And, mystic haunt of the whippoorwills, 
The wood, that all the background fills, 
Crowning the tops to the mill-creek hills. 

There, miles away, like a faint blue line, 
Whenever the day is clear and fine, 
You cat? see the track of a river shine. 

Near it a city hides unseen. 

Shut close the verdant hills between, 

As an acorn set in its cup of green. 



And right beneath, at the foot of the hill, 
The little creek flows swift and still, . 
That turns the wheel of Dovecote mill. 

Nearer the grand old house one sees 

Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees, 

And tall straight pears o'ertopping these. 

And down at the foot of the garden, low, 
On a rustic bench, a pretty show, 
"White bee-hives, standing in a row. 

And here you will And on every hand 
Walks and fountains and statues grand, 
And trees from many a foreign land. 

And flowers, that only the learned can name, 
Here glow and burn like a gorgeous flame, 
Putting the poor man's blooms to shame. 

Far away from their native air 

The Norway pines their green dress wear; 

And larches swing their long, loose hair. 

" Though grave and quiet at any time, 
Put that now, his head in manhood's prime 
Is growing white as the winter's rime." 

Here trimmed in sprigs, with blossoms, each 

Of the little bees in easy reach, 

Hang the boughs of the plum and peach. 

At the garden's head are poplars tall, 

And peacocks, making their harsh, loud call, 

Sun themselves all day on the wall. 

Near the porch grows the broad catalpa tree, 
And o'er it the grand wistaria 
Born to the purple of royalty. 

There looking the same for a weary while — 
'Twas built in this heavy, gloomy style — 
Stands the mansion, a grand old pile. 



Always closed, as it is to-daj', 

And the proud squire, so the neighbors say, 

Frowns each unwelcome guest away. 

Though some, who knew him long ago, 
If you ask, will shake their heads of snow, 
And tell you he was not always so, 

Thougn grave and quiet at any time, 

But that now, his head in manhood's prime 

Is growing white as the winter's rime. 

Phcebe Cary. 

" His little hoys are with him, seeking flowers, 
Or chasing the too venturous gilded fly." 


$AIL Sabbath! day of mercy, peace, and rest! 
Thou o'er loud cities throw'st a noiseless spell ; 
The hammer there, the wheel, the saw, molest 
Pale thought no more. O'er trade's conten- 
tious hell 
Meek Quiet spreads her wings invisible. 
But when thou com'st less silent are the fields, 
Through whose sweet paths the toil-freed towns- 
man steals ; 
To him the very air a banquet yields. 
Envious he watches the poised hawk that wheels 
His flight on chainless winds. Each cloud reveals 

A paradise of beauty to his eye. 
His little boys are with him, seeking flowers, 

Or chasing the too venturous gilded fly ; 
So by the daisy's side he spends the hours, 
Renewing friendship with the budding bowers; 

And— while might, beauty, good without alloy, 
Are mirror'd in his children's happy eyes, 

In His great temple offering thankful joy 
To Him the infinitely Great and Wise, 
With soul attuned to Nature's harmonies, 

Serene and cheerful as a sporting child. 

Ebenezer Elliot. 


The glory of the country is in its homes, which contain the true elements of national 
vitality, and are the embodied type of heaven. 





j|HERE'S a wedding in the orchard, dear, 
I know it by the flowers : 
They're wreathed on every bough and branch, 
Or falling down in showers. 

The air is in a mist, I think, 
And scarce knows which to be — 

Whether all fragrance, clinging close, 
Or bird-song, wild and free. 

While whispers ran among the boughs 

Of promises and praise ; 
And playful, loving messages 

Sped through the leaf-lit ways. 

And just beyond the wreathed aisles 

That end against the blue, 
The raiment of the wedding-choir 

And priest came shining through. 

' There's a wedding in the orchard, dear, 
I know it by the flowers." 

And countless wedding-jewels shine, 
And golden gifts of grace : 

I never saw such wealth of sun 
In any shady place. 

It seemed I heard the fluttering robes 
Of maidens clad in white, 

The clasping of a thousand hands 
In tenderest delight; 

And though I saw no wedding-guest, 

Nor groom, nor gentle bride, 
I know that holy things were asked, 

And holy love replied. 

And something through the sunlight said : 

"Let all who love be blest! 
The earth is wedded to the spring — 

And God, He knoweth best." 

Mary E. Dodge. 




|HRICE happy he who by some shady grove, 
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his 

Thou solitary, who is not alone, 
But doth converse with that eternal love, 
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, 
Or the hoarse sobhings of the widow'd dove, 
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's 

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! 
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, 
And sighs embalm'd which new-born flowers 

Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath ! 
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! 
The world is full of horror, troubles, slights : 
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights. 
William Deummond. 

"Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, 
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own. 3 


'JOKEPIDE the stream the grist-mill stands, 

'f^'\ With bending roof and leaning wall ; 

*ff^ So old, that when the winds are wild, 

j-l The miller trembles lest it fall : 

And yet it baffles wind and rain, 

Our brave old Mill, and will again. 

From morn to night in Autumn time, 
When harvests fill the neighboring plains, 

Up to the mill the farmers drive, 
And back anon with loaded wains : 

And when the children come from school 

They stop and watch its foamy pool. 

Its dam is steep, and hung with weeds : 
The gates are up, the waters pour, 

And tread the old wheels slippery round, 
The lowest step forever o'er. 

Methinks they fume, and chafe with ire, 

Because they cannot climb it higher. 

The mill inside is small and dark; 

But peeping in the open door 
You see the miller flitting round, 

The dusty hags along the floor, 
The whirling shaft, the clattering spout, 
And the yellow meal a-pouring out! 



All da}' the meal is floating there, 
Rising and falling in the breeze; 

And when the sunlight strikes its mist 
It glitters like a swarm of bees : 

Or like the cloud of smoke and light 

Above a blacksmith's forge at night. 

I love our pleasant, quaint old Mill, 
It still recalls my boyish prime ; 

1 Tis changed since then, and so am I, 
"We both have known the touch of time : 

The mill is crumbling in decay, 
And I — my hair is early gray. 

I stand beside the stream of life, 
And watch the current sweep along : 

And when the flood-gates of my heart 
Are raised, it turns the wheel of song : 

But scant, as yet, the harvest brought 

From out the golden fields of Thought. 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



HILE the city is refreshed and renovated by the pure tides poured from the 
country into its steamy and turbid channels, the cultivation of the soil affords 
at home that moderate excitement, healthful occupation, and reasonable return, 
which most conduce to the prosperity and enjoyment of life. It is, in fact, 
the primitive employment of man, — first in time, first in importance. The 
newly-created father of mankind was placed by the Supreme Author of his being in the 
garden which the- hand of Omnipotence itself had planted, "to dress and to keep it." 
Before the heaving bellows had urged the furnace, before a hammer had struck upon an 
anvil, before the gleaming waters had flashed from an oar, before trade had hung up its 
scales or gauged its measures, the culture of the soil began. "To dress the garden and 
to keep it!" — This was the key-note struck by the hand of God himself in that long, 
joyous, wailing, triumphant, troubled, pensive strain of life-music which sounds through 
the generations and ages of our race. Banished from the garden of Eden, man's merciful 
sentence — at once doom, reprieve and livelihood — was "to till the ground from which he 
was taken,' - ' and this, in its primitive simplicity, was the occupation of the gathering 
societies of men. 

To this wholesome discipline the mighty East, in the days of her ascendency, was 
trained ; and so rapid was her progress that in periods anterior to the dawn of history she 
had tamed the domestic animals, had saddled the horse, and yoked the ox, and milked the 
cow, and sheared the patient sheep, and possessed herself of most of the cereal grains 
which feed mankind at the present day. I obtained from the gardens of Chatsworth, and 
sent to this country, where they germinated, two specimens of wheat raised from grains 
supposed to have been wrapped uj) in Egyptian mummy-cloths 3,000 years ago, and not 
materially differing from our modern varieties; one of them, indeed, being precisely 
identical — thus affording us the pleasing assurance that the corn which Joseph placed in 
Benjamin's sack before the great pyramid was built was not inferior to the best of the 
present day. 

Edward Everett. 

I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than to be crowded on 
a velvet cushion. 




old farm-house with meadows wide 
And sweet with clover on each side ; 
A bright-eyed hoy, who looks from out 
The door with woodbine wreathed about, 
And wishes his one thought all day : 
" Oh, if I could but fly away 

Erom this dull spot, the world to see, 
How happy, happy, happy, 

How happy I should be ! " 

Amid the city's constant din, 
A man who round the world has been, 
Who, mid the tumult and the throng, 
Is thinking, thinking, all day long : 
" Oh, could I only tread once more 

The field-path to the farm-house door, 
The old green meadow could I see, 

How happy, happy, happy, 
How happy I should be!" 

Marion Douglass. 

" Still where he treads the stubborn clods divide. 
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide." 


i|LEAR the brown path to meet his coulter's gleam ! 
Lo ! on he comes, behind his smoking team, 
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt 
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! 

First in the field before the reddening sun, 
Last in the shadows when the day is'done, 
Line after line, along the bursting sod, 
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod. 
Still where he treads the stubborn clods divide, 
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide ; 
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, 
Mellow and dark the ridgy corn-field cleaves; 

Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train 
Slants the long track, that scores the level plain, 
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing 

The patient convoy breaks its destined way; 
At every turn the loosening chains resound, 
The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,. 
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears, 
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. 

These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings 
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; 
This is the page whose letters shall be seen, 
Changed by the sun to words of living green; 



This is the scholar whose immortal pen 
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men; 
These are the lines that heaven-commanded Toil 
Shows on his deed, — the charter of the soil! 

O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast 
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest, 
How thy sweet features, kind to every clime, 
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of Time ! 
We stain thy flowers,- — they blossom o'er the dead; 
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ; 
O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn, 
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn; 
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain, 
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 
Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms 
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms, 
Let not our virtues in thy love decay, 
And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away. 

No, by these hills whose banners now displayed 
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ; 
By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests 
The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests ; 
By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, 
And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines, — 
True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil 
To crown with peace their own untainted soil; 
And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind, 
If her chained ban-dogs Faction shall unbind, 
These stately forms, that, bending even now, 
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, 
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, 
The same stern iron in the same right hand, 
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run, — 
The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won! 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

"To walk in the air how pleasant and fair.' 


COUNTRY life is sweet! 
In moderate cold and heat, 

To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! 
In every field of wheat, 

The fairest flowers adorning the bowers, 
And every meadow's brow ; 

So that I say, no courtier may 

Compare with them who clothe in gray, 
And follow the useful plough. 

They rise with the morning lark, 
And labor till almost dark, 

Then, foldiug their sheep, they hasten to sleep 
While every pleasant park 

Next morniug is ringing with birds that are singing 
On each green, tender bough. 

With what content and merriment 

Their days are spent, whose minds are bent 
To follow the useful plough. 

Weariness can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth finds the down pillow hard. 






MlpHE merchant tempts me with his gold, What is to me the city s pride? 
gSg* The gold he worships night and day; The haunt of luxury and pleasure; 

*fp He bids me leave this dreary wold, Those fields and hills, this wild brookside, 
J>1 And come into the city gay. To me are better beyond measure. 

I will not go ; I won't be sold ; Mid country scenes I'll still abide ; 

I scorn his pleasures and array; With country life and country leisure, 

I'll rather bear the country's cold, Content, whatever may betide, 
Than from its freedom walk away. With common good instead of treasure. 

..<..- 3~£-.<».. 


|fIYUE Reverend Robert Collj'er made the remark on one occasion that during his twenty 
&^~3 years' residence in Chicago he had not known of a single man who had come 
■&|p prominently to the front in any pursuit who was born and bred in a large city. 
The leading men in every calling — judges, lawyers, clergymen, editors, merchants, 
and so on — had been reared in the country, away from the follies, the vices and the 
enervating influences that are known to exist in all large towns. Fashion reduces all 
young men and women to the same dull and uninteresting level. New York is now an 
old city. It has produced generations of men. How few of them have ever made 
their mark, there or elsewhere ! It cannot be said that they go into other parts of the 
country and there develop the higher forms of manhood. They are never heard of 
except in the aggregated, concrete form of "our fellow-citizens." How much of a 
man is due to qualities born in him, and how much to his early environment, no 
philosopher has been able to tell us; but it is impossible to conceive of a sagacious 
intellect like that of Lincoln, of a glorious mind like Webster's, emerging from the 
false glitter and noisy commotion of the city. We think of Washington, the patrician 
sage, pacing among the stately oaks of old Virginia; of Jefferson in his country-seat, 
and of John Adams tilling his farm in Massachusetts. These men, it is true, flourished 
at a time when there were no large cities in the United States. But later on we see 
Lincoln and Garfield reaching the topmost round of fame's ladder from the obscurity 
of country homes. Not one American President, from first to last, was born in a city. 


10W]Sr on the Merrimac River, The good wife, up the river, 

HP? While the autumn grass is green, Has made the oven hot, 

Oh, there the jolly hay-men And with plenty of pandowdy 

In their gundalows are seen ; Has filled her earthen pot. 

Floating down, as ebbs the current, Their long oars sweep them onward, 

And the dawn leads on the day, As the ripples round them play, 

With their scythes and rakes all ready, And the jolly hay-men drift along 

To gather in the hay. To make the meadow hay. 



At the bank-side then they moor her, 

Where the sluggish waters run, 
By the shallow creek's low edges, 

Beneath the fervid sun — 
And all day long the toilers 

Mow their swaths, and day hy day, 
You can see their scythe-blades flashing 

At the cutting of the hay. 

When the meadow-birds are flying, 
Then down go scythe and rake, 

And right and left their scattering shots 
The sleeping echoes wake — 

For silent spreads the broad expanse, 

To the sand-hills far away, 
And thus they change their work for sport, 

At making of the hay. 

When the gundalows are loaded — 

Gunwales to the water's brim — 
With their little square-sails set atop, 

Up the river how they swim ! 
At home, beside the fire, by night, 

While the children round them play, 
What tales the jolly hay-men tell 

Of getting in the hay ! 

George Ltjnt. 

: 'EN 

" Down on the Merrimac River, 

While the autumn grass is green." 



E are up and away, ere the sunrise hath kissed 
In the valley below us, that ocean of mist, 
Ere the tops of the hills have grown bright in 

its ray, 

With our scythes on our shoulders, we're up 
and away. 

The freshness and beauty of morning are ours, 
The music of birds and the fragrance of flowers ; 
And our trail is the first that is seen in the dew. 
As our pathway through orchards and lanes we pursue. 

Hurrah ! here we are ! now together, as one, 
Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily on; 
All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass, 
With a swing and a ring of the steel through the 

Before us the clover stands thickly and tall, 
At our left it is piled in a verdurous wall ; 
And never breathed monarch more fragrant perfumes 
Than the sunshine distills from its leaves and its 



Invisible censers around us are swung, 
And anthems exultant from tree-tops are flung; 
And 'mid fragrance and music and beauty we share 
The jubilant life of the earth and the air. 

Letthe priest and the lawyer grow pale in their shades, 
And the slender young clerk keep his skin like a 

We care not, though dear Mother Nature may bronze 
Our cheeks with the kiss that she gives to her sons. 

Then cheerly, boys, cheerly! together, as one, 
Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily on; 
All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass, 
With a swing and a ring of the steel through the grass. 
William Henky Burleigh. 



lOOlST as the morning trembles o'er the sky, 
m And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day, 

Before the ripened field the reapers stand. 

At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves, 

While through their cheerful band the rural talk, 
The rural scandal, and the rural jest, 
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, 
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away. 

James Thomson. 

IStHE bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down, 
Mm And rest your gentle head upon her lap, 
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you, 
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep, 
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness; 

Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep 
As is the difference betwixt day and night, 
The hour before the heavenly-harnessed team 
Begins his golden progress in the east. 




HERE mountains round a lonely dale 
§1 Our cottage-roof enclose, 
K Come night or morn, the hissing pail 
With yellow cream o'erflows; 
And roused at hreak of day from sleep, 

And cheerly trudging hither — 
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 
We mow the grass together. 

Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep, 
And join for golden weather — 

A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 
We mow the dale together. 

The good-wife stirs at five, we know, 
The master soon comes round, 

And many swaths must lie a-row 
Ere breakfast-horn shall sound; 

" A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 
We mow the grass together." 

The fog drawn up the mountain -side 
And scattered flake by flake, 

The chasm of blue above grows wide, 
And richer blue the lake ; 

The clover and the florin deep, 
The grass of silvery feather — 

A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep, 
We mow the dale together. 



The noon-tide brings its welcome rest 

Our toil- wet brows to dry ; 
Anew with merry stave and jest 

The shrieking bone we ply. 
White falls the brook from steep to steep 

Among the purple heather — 
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 

We mow the dale together. 

For dial, see, our shadows turn ; 

Low lies tbe stately mead ; 
A scythe, an hour-glass, and an um — 

All flesh is grass, we read. 
To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep, 

To Heaven we leave it, whether — 
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 

We've done our task together. 

William Allingham. 



LOVE the beautiful evening 

When the sunset clouds are gold ; 
When the barn-fowls seek a shelter 

And the young lambs seek their fold : 
When the four-o'-clocks are open. 

And the swallows homeward come ; 
When the horses cease their labors, 

And the cows come home. 

When the supper's almost ready, 

And Johnny is asleep, 
And I beside the cradle 

My pleasant vigil keep : 
Sitting beside tbe window 

Watching for "Pa" to come. 
While the soft bells gently tinkle 

As the cows come home. 

When the sunset and the twilight 

In mingling hues are blent, 
I can sit and watch the shadows 

With my full heart all content : 
And I wish for nothing brighter, 

And I long no more to roam 
When the twilight's peace comes o'er me, 

And the cows come home. 

I see their shadows lengthen 

As they slowly cross the field, 
And I know the food is wholesome 

Which their generous udders yield. 
More than the tropic's fruitage, 

Than marble hall or dome, 
Are the blessings that surround me 

When the cows come home. 

Mary E. Nealet. 





OME to the sunset tree! 
_. J The day is past and gone ; 
|" The woodman's ax lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 

The twilight star to heaven, 
And the summer dew to flowers, 

And rest to us is given 
By the cool, soft evening hours. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone; 
The woodman's ax lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 

Yes; tuneful is the sound 

That dwells in whispering houghs; 
Welcome the freshness round, 

And the gale that fans our brows. 

"Come to the sunset tree, 
The day is past. and gone." 

Sweet is the hour of rest! 

Pleasant the wind's low sigh, 
And the gleaming of the west, 

And the turf whereon we lie. 

When the burden and the heat 
Of labor's task are o'er, 

And kindly voices greet 
The tired one at his door. 

But rest more sweet and still 
Than ever nightfall gave, 

Our longing hearts shall fill 
In the world beyond the grave. 

There shall no tempest blow, 
No scorching noontide heat; 

There shall be no more snow, 
No weary wandering feet. 



And we lift our trusting eyes, 
From the hills our fathers trod, 

To the quiet of the skies, 
To the Sahbath of our God. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's ax lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hejians. 



LITTLE brook half hidden under trees- 
It gives me peace and rest the whole day 

Having this little brook to wander to, 

So cool, so clear, with grassy banks and these 
Sweet miracles of violets 'neath the trees. 

And yet the waves they come I know not whence, 
And they now on from me I know not whither, 
Sometimes my fancy pines to follow thither; 
But I can only see the forest dense, — 
Still the brook flows I know not where nor 

"I sit here by the stream in full content." 

There is a rock where I can sit and see 
The crystal ripples dancing down and racing, 
Like children round the stones each other chasing, 
Then for a moment pausing seriously, 
In a dark mimic pond that I can see. 

The rock is rough and broken on its edge 
With jutting corners, but there come alway 
The merry ripples with their tiny spray, 
To press it ere they flow on by the sedge, 
They never fail the old rock's broken edge. 

I sit here by the stream in full content, 
It is so constant, and I lay my hand 
Down through its waters on the golden sand, 
And watch the sunshine with its shallows blent, 
Watch it with ever-arrowing, sweet content. 

Who knows from what far hills it threads its way, 
What mysteries of cliffs and pines and skies 
O'erhang the spot where its first fountains rise, 
What shy wild deer may stoop to taste its spray, 
Through what rare regions my brook threads its way. 

I only see the trees above, below, 
Who knows through what fair lands the stream may 

What children play, what homes are built thereon, 

Through what great cities broadening it may go? — 

I only see the trees above, below. 

What do I care? I pause with full content, 

My little brook beside the rock to see, 

What it has been or what it yet may be. 
Naught matters, I but know that it is sent 
Flowing my way, and I am well content. 

Mart Bolles Branch. 




IE AT GOD ! — our heart-felt thanks to Thee ! 

We feel thy presence everywhere; 
And pray, that we may ever be 

Thus objects of thy guardian care. 

"We sowed! — by Thee our work was seen, 
And blessed; and instantly went forth 

Thy mandate ; and in living green 
Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth. 

We toiled I — and Thou didst note our toil; 

And gav'st the sunshine and the rain, 
Till ripened on the teeming soil 

The fragrant grass, and golden grain. 

And now, we reap ! — and oh, our God ! 

From this, the earth's unbounded floor, 
We send our Song of Thanks abroad, 

And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store! 

W. D. Gallagher. 


fll'M standing by the window-sill, 

Where we have stood of yore ; 
The sycamore is waving still 

Its branches near the door; 
And near me creeps the wild-rose vine 

On which our wreaths were hung, — 
Still round the porch its tendrils twine, 

As when we both were young. 

The little path that used to lead 

Down by the river shore 
Is overgrown with brier and weed — 

Not level as before. 

But there's no change upon the hill, 

From whence our voices rung — 
The violets deck the summit still, 

As when we both were young. 

And yonder is the old oak-tree, 

Beneath whose spreading shade, 
When our young hearts were light and free, 

In innocence we played ; 
And over there the meadow gate 

On which our playmates swung, 
Still standing in its rustic state, 

As when we both were young. 

Louisa Chandler Modlton. 




SpTlIEKE art thou loveliest, O Mature, tell! 
&A)jp Oh, where may be thy Paradise? Where grow 
P ''-- ?' Thy happiest groves? And down what woody 

W dell 

Do thy most fancy-winning waters flow? 

Eternal summer, while the air may quell 
His fury. Is it 'neath his morning car, 
Where jeweled palaces, and golden thrones, 
Have awed the Eastern nations through all time? 
Or o'er the Western seas, or where afar 

" And down what woody dell 
Do thy most fancy-winning waters flow? ' 

Tell where thy softest breezes longest blow? 
And where thy ever blissful mountains swell 
Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw 

Our winter sun warms up the southern zones 
With summer? Where can be the happy climes? 

William Barnes. 

i''j|||0 walk with the breeze upon one's brow, to trample the level grass exuberant 
with freshness, to climb upon the mountain, to follow through the meadows 

•^P*- some thread of water gliding under rushes and water-plants, — I give you my 
word for it, there is happiness in this. At this contact with healthy and natural 

things, the follies of the world drop off as drop the dead leaves when the spring sap 

rises and the young leaves put forth. 




|LED now the sullen murmurs of the north, 
The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth ; 
Her universal green and the clear sky 
Delight still more and more the gazing eye. 
"Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, 

Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along 

The mellowed soil, imbibing fairer hues 

Or sweets from frequent showers and evening dews 

That summon from their sheds the slumbering ploughs, 

While health impregnates every breeze that blows. 

No wheels support the diving, pointed share ; 

No groaning ox is doomed to labor there ; 

Welcome, green headland! firm beneath his feet: 
Welcome, the friendly bank's refreshing seat; 
There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse 
Their sheltering canopy of pendant boughs ; 
Till rest delicious chase each transient pain, 
And new-born vigor swell in every vein. 
Hour after hom-, and day to day succeeds, 
Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads 
To crumbling mould, — a level surface clear, 
And strewed with corn to crown the rising year; 
And o'er the whole, Giles, once transverse again, 
In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain. 

"For pigs and ducks and turkeys throng the door." 

No helpmates teach the docile steed his road 

(Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad) : 

But unassisted, through each toilsome day. 

With smiling brow the ploug iman cleaves his way, 

Draws his fresh parallels, and, widening still, 

Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill. 

Strong on the wing his busy followers play, 

Where writhing earthworms meet the unwelcome day, 

Till all is changed, and hill and level down 

Assume a livery of sober brown ; 

Again disturbed, when Giles with wearying strides 

From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides. 

His heels deep sinking, every step he goes, 

Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes. 

The work is done; no more to man is given; 
The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven. 

His simple errand done, he homeward hies; 
Another instantly its place supplies. 
The clattering dairy-maid, immersed in steam, 
Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream, 
Bawls out, "Go fetch the cows!" — he hears 

more ; 
For pigs and ducks and turkeys throng the door, 
And sitting hens for constant war prepared, — ■ 
A concert strange to that which late he heard. 
Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes ; 
With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows; 



Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze, 

Or hear the summons with an idle gaze. 

For well they know the cow-yard yields no 

Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store. 
Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow, 
The right of conquest all the law they know; 
The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed, 
And one superior always takes the lead, 
Is ever foremost whereso'er they stray, 
Allowed precedence, undisputed sway : 
With jealous pride her station is maintained, 
For many a broil that post of honor gained. 
At home, the yard affords a grateful scene, 
For spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. 
Thence from its chalky bed behold conveyed 
The rich manure that drenching winter made, 
Which, piled near home, grows green with many 

a weed, 
A promised nutriment for autumn's seed. 

Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles; 

The mistress, too, and followed close by Giles. 

A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, 

With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet. 

Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray 

Begins the work, begins the simple lay ; 

The full-charged udder yields its willing stream 

While Mary sings some lover's amorous dream; 

And crouching Giles, beneath a neighboring tree, 

Tugs o'er his pail and chants with equal glee; 

Whose hat with battered brim, and nap so bare, 

From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, — 

A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, 

An unambitious, peaceable cockade. 

As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid 

The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ; 

With joy she views her plenteous reeking store, 

And bears a brimmer to the dairy door ; 

Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead to roam, 

Till eve again recall them loaded home. 

Robert Bloomfield. 



fij|VFR the hills the farm-boy goes, 
HIP His shadow lengthened along the land, 
-*r A giant staff in a giant hand ; 
| In the poplar tree, above the spring, 
1 The katydid begins to sing ; 

The early dews are falling ; — 
Into the stone-heap darts the mink; 
The swallows skim the river's brink ; 
And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
When over the hill the farm-boy goes, 
Cheerily calling, — 
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" 
Farther, farther, over the hill, 
Faintly calling, calling still, — 

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" 

N"ow to her task the milkmaid goes, 

The cattle come crowding through the gate, 

Lowing, pushing, little and great; 

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, 

The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, 

While the pleasant dews are falling; 
The new-milch heifer is quick and shy, 
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ; 
And the white stream into the bright pail flows, 
When to her task the milkmaid goes, 

Soothingly calling, — 
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" 
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 
And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 

Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!" 

Into the yard the farmer goes, 

With grateful heart, at the close of day ; 

Harness and chain are hung away; 

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; 

The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, 

The cooling dews are falling ; — 
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, 
The pigs come grunting to his feet, 
The whinnying mare her master knows, 
When into the yard the farmer goes, 

His cattle calling, — 
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" 
While still the cow-boj r , far away, 
Goes seeking those that have gone astray, — 
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" 

To supper at last the farmer goes, 
The apples are pared, the paper read, 
The stories are told, then all to bed. 
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song 
Makes shrill the silence all night long; 

The heavy dews are falling. 
The housewife's hand has turned the lock; 
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; 
The household sinks to deep repose ; 
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes 

Singing, calling, — 
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'! " 
And oft the milkmaid in her dreams 
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, 

Murmuring, "So, boss! so! " 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 




|p LOVE, I love to see 
P§ Bright steel gleam through the land ; 
X 'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be 
I In the reaper's tawny hand. 

The helmet and the spear 
Are twined with the laurel wreath ; 

But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear; 
And blood-spots rust beneath. 

I love to see the field 

That is moist with purple stain, 
But not where bullet, sword and shield 

Lie strewn with the gory slain. 

No, no ; 'tis where the sun 
Shoots down his cloudless beams, 

Till rich and bursting juice-drops run 
On the vineyard earth in streams. 

My glowing heart beats high 

At the sight of shining gold ; 
But it is not that which the miser's eye 

Delighteth to behold; 

A brighter wealth by far 
Than the deep mine's yellow vein, 

Is seen around in the fair hills crowned 
With sheaves of burnished grain. 

Look forth thou thoughtless one, 

Whose proud knee never bends ; 
Take thou the bread that's daily spread, 

But think on Him who sends. . 

Look forth, ye toiling men, 

Though little ye possess, — 
Be glad that dearth is not on earth 

To make that little less. 

Let the song of praise be poured 

In gratitude and joy, 
By the rich man with his garners stored 

And the ragged gleaner-boy. 

The feast that N ature gives 

Is not for one alone; 
'Tis shared by the meanest slave that lives 

And the tenant of a throne. 

Then glory to the steel 

That shines in the reaper's hand, 
And thanks to Him who has blest the seed 

And crowned the harvest land. 

Eliza Cook. 


'I>;IRD-LIKE she's up at day-dawn's blush, 
In summer heats or winter snows — 
Her veins with healthful blood aflush, 
Her breath of balm, her cheek a rose, 

" Homeward (his daily labors done) 
The stalwart farmer slowly plods." 

In eyes — the kindest eyes on earth - 
Are sparkles of a homely mirth ; 

Demure, arch humor's ambush in 
The clear curves of her dimpled chin. 
Ah ! guileless creature, hale and good, 
Ah ! fount of wholesome womanhood, 
Far from the world's unhallowed strife! 
God's blessing on the farmer's wife. 

I love to mark her matron charms, 

Her fearless steps through household ways, 
Her sun-burnt hands and buxom arms, 

Her waist unbound by torturing stays ; 
Blithe as a bee, with busy care, 
She's here, she's there, she's everywhere ; 
Long ere the clock has struck for noon 
Home chords of toil are all in tune ; 
And from each richly bounteous hour 
She drains its use, as bees a flower. 
Apart from Passion's pain and strife, 
Peace gently girds the Farmer's Wife ! 

Homeward (his daily labors done) 
The stalwart farmer slowly plods, 

From battling, between shade and sun, 
With sullen glebe and stubborn sods. 

Her welcome on his spirit bowed 

Is sunshine fiashlna; on a cloud! 



All vanished is the brief eclipse! 
Hark ! to the sound of wedded lips, 
And words of tender warmth that start 
Prom out the husband's grateful heart! 
O ! well he knows how vain is life, 
Unsweetened by the Farmer's Wife. 

But lo ! the height of pure delight 

Comes with the evening's stainless joys, 
When by the hearthstone spaces bright 

Blend the glad tones of girls and boys ; 
Their voices rise in gleeful swells, 
Their laughter rings like elfin bells, 
Till with a look 'twixt smile and frown 
The mother lays her infant down, 
And at her firm, uplifted hand, 
There's silence 'mid the jovial band; 

Her signal stills their harmless strife — 
Love crowns with law the Farmer's Wife ! 

Ye dames in proud, palatial halls — 
Of lavish wiles and jeweled dress, 
On whom, perchance, no infant calls 
(For barren oft.YOUE loveliness) — 
Turn hitherward those languid eyes 
And for a moment's space be wise; 
Your sister 'mid the country dew 
Is three times nearer Heaven than you, 
And where the palms of Eden stir, 
Dream not that ye shall stand by her, 
Though in your false, bewildering life, 
Your folly scorned the Farmer's Wife ! 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 


, GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun, 
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, 
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all 

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, 
While he waited to know that his warning was true, 
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain 
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks ,of the Xenil, the dark Spanish maiden 
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; 
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of 

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, 
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, 
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, 
And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah ! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from 

From North and from South come the pilgrim and 

When the grey -haired New-Englander sees round his 

The old broken links of affection restored, 

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once 

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled 

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? 
What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin-pie? 

O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; 
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts 

were falling ! 
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! 
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts 

all in tune, 
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, 
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam 
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 

Then thanks for thy present! — none sweeter or better 
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 
Brighter eyes neverwatched o'er its baking than thine! 
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, 
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin- vine grow, 
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie! 

John Greenleaf Whittiee. 

HEAR the wood-thrush piping one mellow des- 
cant more, 

And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of 
day is o'er. 

|ATH not old custom made this life more sweet 
1 'Is Than that of painted pomp? Are not these 
More free from perils than the envious court? 




ERRILY swinging on briar and weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 
Broods in the grass while her husband sings : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

m *& 

P- !%. 

*%<«W<9 ; | 



" Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.' 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed. 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat; 
White are his shoulders and white his ores', 
Hear him call in his merry note : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she, 

One weak chirp is her only note, 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Never was I afraid of man ; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



Six white eggs uu a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! 
There as the mother sits all day, 
Robert is singing with all his might: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell 

Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seed for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o'-link. bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spiuk; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln at length is made 

Sober with work, and silent with care ; 
Off is his holiday garment laid, 
Half forgotten that merry air, 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spiuk; 
Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes; the children are grown; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows; 
Robert of Lincoln 's a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
Chee, chee, chee. 
William Cullen Bryant. 


SIT by the open window 

And look to the hills away, 
Over beautiful undulations 

That glow with the flowers of May — 
And as the lights and the shadows 

With the passing moments change, 
Comes many a scene of beauty 

Within my vision's range — 
But there is not one among them 

That is half so dear to me, 
As an old log-cabin I think of 

On the banks of the Tennessee. 

Now up from the rolling meadows, 

And down from the hill-tops now, 
Fresh breezes steal in a.t my window, 

And sweetly fan my brow — 
And the sounds that they gather and brino 

From rivulet, and meadow, and hill, 
Come, in with a touching cadence, 

And my throbbing bosom fill — 
But the dearest thoughts thus wakened, 

And in tears brought back to me, 
Cluster round that old log-cabin 

On the banks of the Tennessee. 

To many a fond remembrance 

My thoughts are backward east, 
As I sit by the open window 

And recall the faded past — 
For all along the windings 

Of the ever-moving years, 
Lie wrecks of hope and of purpose 

That I now behold through tears — 

And of all of them, the saddest 
That is thus brought back to me, 

Makes holy that old log-cabin 
On the banks of the Tennessee. 

" An old log-cabin I think of 

On the banks of the Tennessee." 

Glad voices now greet me daily, 

Sweet faces I oft behold, 
V T et I sit by the open window, 

And dream of the times of old — 
Of a voice that on earth is silent, 

Of a face that is seen no more, 
Of a spirit that faltered not ever 

In the struggle of days now o'er — 
And a beautiful grave comes pictured 

Forever and ever to me, 
From a knoll near that old log-cabin 

On the banks of the Tennessee. 

W. D. Gallagher. 




|H! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May, — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles 
Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, 
With the woodbine alternating, 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May, — 
Longing to escape from study, 
To the youug face fair and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer's day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May, — 
Sighing for their sure returning, 
When the summer beams are burning, 

Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, 

All the winter lay. 
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, 

Sighing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May, — 
Throbbing for the seaside billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows ; 
Where, in laughing and in sobbing, 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the May : 
Spring goes by. with wasted warnings, — 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings, — 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away ; 
Man is ever weary, weary, 
Waiting for the May ! 

Denis Florence Mac-Cakthy. 



^^pGEICULTUEE is the greatest among the arts, for it is first in supplying our 
liipt necessities. It is the mother and nurse of all other arts. It favors and 
'iff * strengthens population ; it creates and maintains manufactures, gives employment 
J"l to navigation and materials to commerce. It animates every species of industry, 
and opens to nations the surest channels of opulence. It is also the strongest bond of 
well regulated society, the surest basis of internal peace, the natural associate of good 

We ought to count among the benefits of agriculture the charm which the practice of 
it communicates to a country life. That charm which has made the country, in our own 
view, the retreat of the hero, the asylum of the sage, and the temple of the historic 
muse. The strong desire, the longing after the country, with which we find the bulk of 
mankind to be penetrated, points to it as the chosen abode of sublunary bliss. The sweet 
occupations of culture with her varied products and attendant enjoyments are, at 
least, a relief from the stifling atmosphere of the city, the monotony of subdivided 
employments, the anxious uncertainty of commerce, the vexations of. ambition so 
often disappointed, of self-love so often mortified, of factitious pleasures and un- 
substantial vanities. 

We deplore the disposition of young men to get away from their farm homes to 
our larger cities, where they are subject to difficulties and temptations, which, but too 
often, they fail to overcome. 

Depend upon it, if you would hold your sons and brothers back from roaming 



away into the perilous centres, you must steadily make three attempts — to abate the 
taskwork of farming, to raise maximum crops and profits, and to surround your work 
with the exhilaration of intellectual progress. You must elevate the whole spirit of your 
vocation for your vocation's sake, till no other can outstrip it in what most adorns 
and strengthens a civilized state. 



|HE ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets, 
Crowded with multitudinous life ; the din. 
Of toil and traffic, and the woe and siD, 
The dweller in the populous city meets : 
These have I left to seek the cool retreats 
Of the untrodden forest, where, in bowers 
Builded by Nature's band, inlaid with flowers, 

And roofed with ivy, on the mossy seats 
Reclining, I can while away the hours 
In sweetest converse with old books, or give 
My thoughts to God ; or fancies fugitive 
Indulge, while over me their radiant showers 
Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down, 
And thanks to Him my meditations crown ! 

William Henry Butcleigh. 




PpREE from the cottage corner, see how wild Now, leering 'mid the bushes on his knees 
«l! The village boy along the pasture hies, On woodland banks, for blue-bell flowers he 

" "With every smell, and sound, and sight beguiled, creeps; — 

That rouud the prospect meets his wondering And now, while looking up among the trees, 

eyes ; He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers,. 

Now, stooping, eager for the cowslip peeps, And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies ; 
As though he'd get them all, — now tired of these, The happiest object in the summer hours. 

Across the flaggy brook he eager leaps, 
For some new flower his happy rapture sees ; - 


" And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies.' 

""E3— Si-S 1 


IpLESSENTGS on thee, little man, 
9v?- Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 
*fp With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
J4. And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 

With the sunshine on thy face, 

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace! 

From my heart I give thee joy: 

I was once a barefoot boy. 

Prince thou art — the grown-up man 

Only is republican. 



Let the million-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy, 
In the reach of ear and eye : 
•Outward sunshine, inward joy. 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 

O ! for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools : 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 

Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; 

Of the black wasp's cunning way, 

Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 

Of gray hornet artisans ! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks ; 

Hand in hand with her he walks, 

Face to face with her he talks, 

i; With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes." 

Of the wild bee's morning chase. 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 

Part and parcel of her joy. 
Blessings on the barefoot boy! 

for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for! 

1 was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 



For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight, 
Through the day and through the night: 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides! 
Still, as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too, 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

O, for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude! 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent : 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
While, for music, came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 

And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the lly his lamp of Are. 
I was monarch; pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man I 
Live and laugh as boyhood can ; 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; 
AH too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison-cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil, 
Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

-l3— SG—E-j- 


ajdgOT what we would, but what we must, 
iSllp Makes up the sum of living ; 
^k Heaven is both more and less than just 
In taking and in giving. 
Swords cleave to hands that sought the plough, 
And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 

Me, whom the city holds, whose feet 

Have worn its stony highways, 
Familiar with its loneliest street — 

Its ways were never my ways. 
My cradle was beside the sea, 
And there, I hope, my grave will be. 

Old homestead ! In that old, gray town, 

Thy vane is seaward blowing, 
The slip of garden stretches down 

To where the tide is flowing : 
Below they lie, their sails all furled, 
The ships that go about the world. 

Dearer that little country house, 

Inland, with pines beside it; 
Some peach-trees, with unfruitful boughs, 

A well, with weeds to hide it : 
No flowers, or only such as rise 

Self-sown, poor things, which all despise. 

Dear country home ! Can I forget 

The least of thy sweet trifles? 
The window-vines that clamber yet, 

Whose bloom the bee still rifles? 
The roadside blackberries, growing ripe, 
And in the woods the Indian Pipe? 

Happy the man who tills his field, 

Content with rustic labor ; 
Earth does to him her fulness yield, 

Hap what may to his neighbor. 
Well days, sound nights, oh, can there be 
A life more rational and free? 

Dear country life of child and man ! 

For both the best, the strongest, 
That with the earliest race began, 

And hast outlived the longest: 
Their cities perished long ago; 
Who the first farmers were we know. 

Perhaps our Babels too will fall ; 

If so, no lamentations, 
For Mother Earth will shelter all, 

And feed the unborn nations; 
Yes, and the swords that menace now, 

Will then be beaten to the plough. 

Bichard HENitr Stoddard. 




EjJpAPPY the man whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 
In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 
Hours, days, and years slide soft away 

In health of body, peace of mind, 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
Together mixed ; sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 

Thus unlamented let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope. 



"The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields." 


JIBEKAL, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; 
^ Nor was perfection made for man below : 

Yet all her schemes with nicest art are planned, 
Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. 
With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow, 
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise, 
There plague and poison, lust and famine, grow; 
Here peaceful are the vales and pure the skies, 
And freedom fires the soul and sparkles in the eyes. 

Then grieve not, thou, to whom the indulgent Muse, 
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire ; 
Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse 
The imperial banquet and the rich attire : 
Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. 

Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined? 
No ; let thy Heaven-taught soul to Heaven aspire, 
To fancy, freedom, harmony, resigned ; 
Ambition's grovelling crew forever left behind. 

O, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; 
All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 
And all that echoes to the song of even, 
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
And all the dread magnificence of heaven, 
O, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be for- 
given ! 

James Beattie. 



o u 

a. 2 

;: to 




PlOW burns the summer afternoon ; 
* A mellow lustre lights the scene ; 
And from its smiling beauty soon 
The purpling shade will chase the sheen. 

The old, quaint homestead's windows blaze ; 

The cedars long black pictures show; 
And broadly slopes one path of rays 

Within the barn, and makes it glow. 

The loft stares out — the cat intent, 
Like carving, on some gnawing rat — 

With sun-bathed hay and rafters bent, 
Nooked, cobwebbed homes of wasp and bat. 

The harness, bridle, saddle dart 

Gleams from the lower, rough expanse ; 

At either side the stooping cart, 
Pitchfork, and plow cast looks askance. 

White Dobbin through the stable doors 
Shows his round shape ; faint color coats 

The manger, where the farmer pom's, 
With rustling rush, the glancing oats. 

A sun haze streaks the dusky shed ; 

Makes spears of seams and gems of chinks ; 
In mottled gloss the straw is spread; 

And the grey grindstone dully blinks. 

The sun salutes the lowest west 
With gorgeous tints around it drawn; 

A beacon on the mountain's breast, 
A crescent, shred, a star— and gone. 

The landscape now prepares for night; 

A gauzy mist slow settles round ; 
Eve shows her hues in every sight, 

And blends her voice with every sound. 

The sheep stream rippling down the dell, 
Their smooth, sharp faces pointed straight; 

The pacing kine, with tinkling bell, 
Come grazing through the pasture gate. 

The ducks are grouped, and talk in fits; 
One yawns with stretch of leg and wing; 

One rears and fans, then, settling, sits; 
One at a moth makes awkward spring. 

The geese march grave in Indian file, 
The ragged patriarch at the head ; 

Then, screaming, flutter off awhile, 
Fold up, and once more stately tread. 

Brave chanticleer shows haughtiest air ; 

Hurls his shrill vaunt with lofty bend ; 
Lifts foot, glares round, then follows where 

His scratching, picking partlets wend. 

Staid Towser scents the glittering ground ; 

Then, yawning, draws a crescent deep, 
Wheels his head-drooping frame around 

And sinks with forepaws stretched for sleep. 

The oxen, loosened from the plow, 
Best by the pear-tree's crooked trunk; 

Tim, standing with yoke-burdened brow, 
Trim, in a mound beside him sunk. 

One of the kine upon the bank, 
Heaves her face-lifting, wheezy roar; 

One smooths, with lapping tongue, her flank; 
With ponderous droop oue finds the floor. 

Freed Dobbin through the soft, clear dark 
Glimmers across the pillared scene, 

With the grouped geese — a pallid mark — 
And scattered bushes black between. 

The fire-flies freckle every spot 
With fickle light that gleams and dies; 

The bat, a wavering, soundless blot, 
The cat, a pah - of prowling eyes. 

Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows 
The deepening air and darkening ground, 

By its rich scent I trace the rose, 
The viewless beetle by its sound. 

The cricket scrapes its rib-like bars; 

The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone; 
And now the heavens are set with stars, 

And night and quiet reign alone. 

Alfeed B. Street. 

|UT now the scene is changed, and all 
HP Is f ancifulry new ; 

The trees, last eve, so straight and tall, 

Are bending on the view, 
And streams of living daylight fall 
The silvery arches through. 

The houghs are strong with glittering pearls, 

As dewdrops bright and bland, 
And there they gleam in silvery curls, 

Like gems of Samarcand, 
Seeming in wild fantastic whirls 

The works of fairyland. 




HffsROM the weather-worn house on the hrow of 
the hill 
We are dwelling afar, in our manhood, to-day ; 
But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
As they looked long ago, ere we wandered 

"We can hear the sharp creak of the farm-gate again, 
And the loud, cackling hens in the gray barn near by, 

With its broad sagging floor and its scaffolds of grain, 
And its rafters that once seemed to reach to the sky; 

We behold the great beams, and the bottomless bay 

Where the farm-boys once joyfully jumped on the hay. 

lis* /I! 

" From the weather-worn house on the brow of the hill 
We are dwelling afar, in our manhood, to-day; 

But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
As they looked long ago, ere we wandered away." 

We can see the tall well-sweep that stands by the door, 
And the sunshine that gleams on the old oaken floor. 

We can hear the low hum of the hard-working bees 
At their toil in our father's old orchard, once more, 

In the broad, trembling tops of the bright-blooming 
As they busily gather their sweet winter store ; 

And the murmuring brook, the delightful old horn, 

And the cawing black crows that are pulling the corn. 

We can see the low hog-pen, just over the way, 
And the long-ruined shed by the side of the road, 

Where the sleds in the summer were hidden away 
And the wagons and plows in the winter were 
stowed ; 

And the cider-mill, down in the hollow below, 
With a long, creaking sweep, the old horse used to 

Where we learned by the homely old tub long ago, 

What a world of sweet rapture there was in a straw; 



From the cider-casks there, loosely lying around, Where we sowed, where we hoed, where we cradled 

More leaked from the bung-holes than dripped on the and mowed, 

ground. Where we scattered the swaths thatwere heavy with 


We behold the bleak hillsides still bristlingwith rocks, Where we tumbled, we pitched, and behind the tall 

Where the mountain streams murmured with musical load 

sound, The broken old bull-rake reluctantly drew. 

Where we hunted and fished, where we chased the How we grasped the old " Sheepskin " with feelings of 

red fox, scorn 

With lazy old house-dog or loud-baying hound; As we straddled the back of the old sorrel mare, 

"And the cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp.' 

And the cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp 
For the shy, whirring partridge, in snow to our 
Where, with neck-yoke and pails, in the old sugar- 
We gathered the sap from the tall maple-trees ; 
And the fields where our plows danced a furious jig, 

While we wearily followed the furrow all day, 
Where we stumbled and bounded o'er boulders so 
That it took twenty oxen to draw them away ; 

And rode up and down through the green rows of 
Like a pin on a clothes-line that sways in the air, 
We can hear our stern fathers reproving us still, 
As the careless old creature "comes down on a 

We are far from the home of our boyhood to-day, 
In the battle of life we are struggling alone ; 

The weather-worn farmhouse has gone to decay, 
The chimney has fallen, its swallows have flown, 



But Fancy yet brings, on her bright golden wings, 
Her beautiful pictures again from the past, 

And Memory fondly and tenderly clings 

To pleasures and pastimes too lovely to last. 

We wander again by the river to-day; 

We sit in the school-room, o'erflowing with fun, 
We whisper, we play, and we scamper away 

When our lessons are learned and the spelling is 

We see the old cellar where apples were kept, 
The garret where all the old rubbish was thrown, 

The little back chamber where snugly we slept, 
The homely old kitchen, the broad hearth of stone, 

Where apples were roasted in many a row, 

Where our grandmothers nodded and knit long ago. 

Our grandmothers long have reposed in the tomb ; 
With a strong, healthy race they have peopled the 
land ; 
They worked with the spindle, they toiled at the 
Nor lazily brought up their babies by hand. 

The old flint-lock musket, whose awful recoil 
Made many a Nimrod with agony cry, 

Once hung on the chimney, a part of the spoil 
Our gallant old grandfathers captured at "Ti." 

Brave men were our grandfathers, sturdy and strong; 
The kings of the forest they plucked from their 

lands ; 
They were stern in their virtues, they hated all wrong, 
And they fought for the right with their hearts and 

their hands. 

Down, down from the hillsides they swept in their 

And up from the valleys they went on their way, 
To light and to fall upon Hubbardton's height, 

To struggle and conquer in Bennington's fray. 

Oh ! fresh be their memory, cherished the sod 
That long has grown green o'er their sacred 

And grateful our hearts to a generous God 
For the blood and the spirit that flows in our veins. 

Our Aliens, our Starks, and our Warners are gone, 
But our mountains remain with their evergreen 

The souls of our heroes are yet marching on, 
The structure they founded shall never go down. 

From the weather-worn house on the brow of the hill 
We are dwelling afar, in our mauhood to-day; 

But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
As they looked when we left them to wander away. 

But the dear ones we loved in the sweet long ago 

In the old village churchyard sleep under the snow. 

Farewell to the friends of our bright boyhood days, 

To the beautiful vales once delightful to roam, 
To the fathers, the mothers, now gone from our 
From the weather-worn house to their heavenly 
Where they wait, where they watch, and will welcome 

us still, 
As they waited and watched in the house on the hill. 

Eugene J, Hall. 


— .«>«$-£««>,,• — 



SX^HEEE is a land, of every land the pride, 
illl Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world besic 

by Heaven o'er all the world beside, 
X? Where brighter suns dispense serener light; 
W* And milder moons imparadise the night; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth : 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 

Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
While in his softened looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. 
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? 
Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around; 
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
That land thy country, and that spot thy home! 

James Montgomery. 


In the month of September, iSi4,the city of Baltimore was threatened by the approach of a British fleet. The chief defense of 
the city was Fort McHenry, which on the 13th became the object of a powerful attack. This attack was witnessed, under most 
remarkable circumstances, by Francis Scott Key, the author of the following song. A friend was held prisoner in the hands of the 
British. To effect his release, Mr. Key visited the squadron in a cartel, or vessel sent for the exchange of prisoners, and was 
detained by the Admiral till the termination of the attack. Placed on board a small vessel, he remained for a whole day a spectator 
of the tremendous cannonading to which the fort was subjected. On its successful resistance depended the fate of his home and 
friends. All day his eyes watched that low fortification. Night came, and in spite of all the efforts of the enemy the flag of his 
country was still flying defiantly in the rays of the setting sun. The bombardment continued through the night, and all the while 
the sleepless watcher paced the deck, straining his eyes to discern, through the smoke and darkness, if the flag was still there. By 
the fitful and lurid gleams of exploding shells, the Stars and Stripes were from time to time revealed to his eager gaze, and gave 
cheer to the anxious hours. 

Morning came. It found him with eyes still fastened on the fort. The star-spangled banner floated proudly in the morning 
breeze, and the echoes of defiant cheers were borne from the fort to his ears. At the same moment the outburst of cannon and the 
thunder of mortars proclaimed that the spirits and courage of its defenders were buoyant as ever. The attack had been foiled; 
his home, his friends were saved. It was a proud moment; and his emotions found utterance in the picturesque and impassioned 
ode, which has become forever associated with the national banner: 

SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly we hailed in the twilight's 
last gleaming? 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through 
the perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 
streaming ; 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 

O, say, does that star-spaagled banner yet wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 

In full glory reflected now shines on the stream. 
'Tis the star-spangled banner! O, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 

A home and a country should leave us no more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of death and the gloom of the 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave I 

O, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's desola- 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued 
Praise the power that has made and preserved us' a 
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto, "In God is our trust." 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 





|AIL Columbia, happy land; 
SHI Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-born band ! 
3k Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 

I Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 

And when the storm of war was gone 
Enjoyed the peace your valor won. 
Let independence be our boast, 
Ever mindful what it cost; 
Ever grateful for the prize, 
Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm, united let us be, 
Rallying round our Liberty; 
As a band of brothers joined, 
Peace and safety we shall find. 

Immortal patriots ! rise once more : 
Defend your rights, defend your shore ; 

Let no rude foe with impious hand, 

Let no rude foe with impious hand, 
Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 

While offering peace sincere and just, 

In Heaven we place a manly trust, 

That truth and justice will prevail, 
And every scheme of bondage fail. 

Sound, sound the trump of Fame! 

Let Washington's great name 

Ring through the world with loud applause , 
Ring through the world with loud applause ; 

Let every clime to Freedom dear 

Listen with a joyful ear! 

With equal skill and godlike power, 
He governed in the fearful hour 
Of horrid war ; or guides with ease 
The happier times of honest peace. 

Behold the chief who now commands, 
Once more to serve his country stands— 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
The rock on which the storm will beat; 
But, armed in virtue firm and true, 
His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you. 
When hope was sinking in dismay, 
And glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
His steady mind, from changes free, 
Resolved on death or liberty. 

Joseph Hofkinson. 



j^lf KEN Freedom, from her mountain height, 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 
$ She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there ! 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light. 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud! 

Who rears't aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of Heaven, — 
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given 
To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle stroke, 

And bid its blendings shine afar, 

Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
The harbingers of victory! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
Then shall thy meteor "glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy star shall glitter o'er the brave; 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rushed wildly back 
Before the broadsides' reeling rack, 



Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
By angel hands to valor given, 

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
And all thy hues were horn in heaven ! 

Forever float that standard sheet. 
Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! 
Joseph Rodman Deake. 



/3EOD save our gracious king, 
^aH Long live our noble king, 
God save the king. 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us, 
God save the king. 

O Lord our God, arise, 
Scatter his enemies, 

And make them fall; 

Confound their politics, 
Frustrate their knavish tricks; 
On him our hopes we fix, 
God save us all. 

The choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour, 

Long may he reign. 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice, 

God save the king. 

Henry Carey. 


^TtfT'HEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, 
jP^JSl^ Arose from out the azure main, 
?<$*•. This was the charter of the land, 
U And guardian angels sung this strain : 

"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; 
Britons never will be slaves." 

The nations not so blessed as thee 
Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; 

While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 

As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 


Tbee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
All their attempts to bend tbee down 

Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
But work their woe and thy renown. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine : 
All thine shall be the subject main: 

And every shore it circles thine. 

The Muses, still with freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair; 
Blessed isle ! with matchless beauty crowned, 

And manly hearts to guard the fair. 

James Thompson. 


~. sons of Freedom, wake to glory : 
M Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise ; 
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary - 

Behold their tears and hear their cries ! 
Shall hateful tyrants mischief breeding, 
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 

Affright and desolate the land, 
While peace and liberty lie bleeding? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath! 
March on! March on! 
All hearts resolved on Victory or death ! 



Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling, 

Which treacherous kings confederate raise ; 
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, 

And lo ! our walls and cities blaze ! 
And shall we basely view the ruin, 
While lawless force, with guilty stride, 
Spreads desolation far and wide, 
With crimes and blood his hands imbruing? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on Victory or death ! 

With luxury and pride surrounded, 

The vile insatiate despots dare, 
Their thirst of gold and power unbounded, 

To mete and vend the light and air! 
Like beasts of burden they would load us, 

Like gods, would bid their slaves adore ; 

But man is man, and who is more? 

Then shall they longer lash and goad us? 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
All hearts resolved on Victory or death ! 

O Liberty ! can man resign thee, 

Once having felt thy generous flame? 
Can dungeon's bolts and bars confine thee, 

Or whips thy noble spirit tame? 
Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield; 
But Freedom is our sword and shield, 
And all their arts are unavailing. 
To arms, to arms, ye brave ! 
Th' avenging sword unsheath ! 
March on ! March on ! 
. All hearts resolved on Victory or death ! 

[From the French op Roget be Lisle.] 


AM a Prussian ! see my colors gleaming — 

The black-white standard floats before me free; 
For Freedom's rights, my father's heart-blood 
. streaming, 
Such, mark ye, mean the black and white to me ! 
Shall I then prove a coward? I'll e'er be to the toward ! 
Though day be dull, though sun shine bright on me, 
I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

Before the throne with love and faith I'm bending, 

Whence, mildly good, I hear a parent's tone; 
With filial heart, obedient ear I'm lending; 

The father trusts — the son defends the throne! 
Affection's ties are stronger — live, O my country, 
longer ! 

The King's high call o'erflows my breast so free; 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

Not every day hath sunny light of glory; 

A cloud, a shower, sometimes dulls the lea; 
Let none believe my face can tell the story, 

That every wish unfruitful is to me. 

How many far and "nearer would think exchange 

much dearer? 
Their Freedom's naughts — how then compare with 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

And if the angry elements exploding, 

The lightnings flash, the thunders loudly roar, 
Hath not the world oft witnessed such foreboding? 

No Prussian's courage can be tested more. 
Should rock and oak be riven, to terror I'm not 
driven ; 

Be storm and din, let flashes gleam so free — 

I am a Prussian, will a Prussian be ! 

Where love and faith so round the monarch cluster, 

Where Prince and People so clasp firm their hands, 
'T is there alone true happiness can muster, 

Thus showing clear how firm the nation's bands, 
Again confirm the lealty! the honest, noble lealty! 
Be strong the bond, strike hands, dear hearts, with 

Is not this Prussia? Let us Prussians be ! 

[From the German.] 


UgHERE is the German's Fatherland? 

Is't Prussia? Swabia? Is't the strand 
Where grows the vine, where flows the 

Is't where the gull skims Baltic's brine? — 
No ! — yet more great and far more grand 
Must be the German's Fatherland ! 

How call they then the German's land? 
Bavaria? Brunswick? Hast thou scanned 
It where the Zuyder Zee extends? 
Where Styrian toil the iron bends ? — 
No, brothei- ; no ! — thou has not spanned 
The German's genuine Fatherland. 



Is then the German's Fatherland 
Westphalia? Pomerania? Stand 
Where Zurich's waveless water sleeps; 
Where Weser winds, where Danube sweeps; 
Hast found it now? — Not yet! Demand 
Elsewhere the German's Fatherland ! 

Then say, where lies the German's land? 
How call they that unconquered land? 
Is't where Tyrol's green mountains rise? 
The Switzer's land I dearly prize, 
By Freedom's purest breezes fanned — 
But no ! 'tis not the German's land ! 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land? 
Baptize that great, that ancient landl 
'Tis surely Austria, proud and bold, 
In wealth unmatched, in glory old? 
Oh none shall write her name on sand ; 
But she is not the German's laud. 

Say then, where lies the German's land? 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
Is't Alsace? Or Lorraine — that gem ■ 
Wrenched from the Imperial diadem 

By wiles which princely treachery planned? 
No! these are not the German's land. 

Where, therefore, lies the German's laud? 
Name now at last that mighty land ! 
Where'er resounds the German's tongue — 
Where German hymns to God are sung — 
There, gallant brother, take thy stand! 
That is the German's Fatherland. 

That is his land, the land of lands, 
Where vows bind less than clasped hands, 
Where Valor lights the flashing eye, 
Where Love and Truth in deep hearts lie, 
And Zeal enkindles Freedom's brand — 
That is the German's Fatherland ! 

That is the German's Fatherland. 

Great God ! Look down and bless that land ! 

And give her noble children souls 

To cherish while existence rolls, 

And love with heart, and aid with hand, 

Their Universal Fatherland. 

[From the German.] 


^|^HE breaking waves dashed high 
U*^ On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
?(!$< And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed. 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came; 
Not with the.roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame. 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear; 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was then - welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ; 
They left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 





<4>=. . 

IPIIIhAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod 
'iiA : Ml Its Maker meant not should be trod 
S&T 1 By man, the image of his God, 
1] Erect and free, 

Unscourged by Superstition's rod 
To bow the knee? 

That's hallowed ground where, mourned and 

The lips repose our love has kissed ; — 
But where's their memory's mansion? Is 't 

Yon churchyard's bowers? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 

Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 

The spot where love's first links were wound, 

That ne'er are riven, 
Is hallowed down to earth's profound, 

And up to heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 
Rim molten still in memory's mould ; 

And will not cool 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 
'T is not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind, — ■ 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right? ' 
He's dead alone that lacks her light! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight? 

A noble cause! 

Give that, — and welcome War to brace 

Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven !— but Heaven rebukes my zeal! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not, — ■ 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august! 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That man can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chant. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples, — -creeds themselves grow wan! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is heaven! 

Its roof, star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
And God himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars! are not your beings pure? 
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above? 
Ye must be heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground? 'T is what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth 

Earth's compass round; 
And your high -priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground. 

Thomas Campbell. 


|N the long vista of the years to roll, 

5> Let me not see my country's honor fade; 

Oh ! let me see our land retain its soul ! 

Her pride in Freedom, and not Freedom's shade. 




jg|j|ARP of the North ! that mouldering long hast 
"? hung 

^P On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's 

J spring, 

t And down the fitful hreeze thy numbers flung, 

Till envious ivy did around thee cling, 
Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, 

O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep? 
Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring, 

Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, 
Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep? 

Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, 

When lay of hopeless love, or gloiy won, 
Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. 

At each according pause was heard aloud 
Thine ardent symphony sublime and high ! 

Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed ; 
For still the burden of thy minstrelsy 

Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's 
matchless eye. 

O, wake once more ! how rude soe'er the hand 

That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray; 
O, wake once more ! though scarce my skill command 

Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay : 
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, 

And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, 
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, 

The wizard note has not been touched in vain. 
Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



f^flT-vT midnight, in his guarded tout. 
J™il§ The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
•4^ When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
f Should tremble at his power. 

I In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, — 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood, 

On old Platasa's day; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 

As quick, as far, as they. 

An hour passed on, the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 

"To arms! they come! the Greek ! the Greek ! ' 
He woke— to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 

"Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars aud your fires; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 
God, and your native land! " 

They fought, like brave men, long and well; 

They piled the ground with Moslem slaiu ; 
They conquered, but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close, 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 

Come to the mother when she feels 
For the first time her first-born's breath; 

Come when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, 
And thou art terrible : the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 
The thanks of millions yet to be. 



Come when his task of fame is wrought; 
Come with her laurel-leaf, hlood-hought ; 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of- palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of halm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee ; there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 

But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed. 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys, — 
And even she who gave thee birth, — 
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth, 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's, — 
One of the few, the immortal names 

That were not born to die. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



S51jjF old sat Freedom on the heights, 
W§ The thunders breaking at her feet ; 
Above her shook the starry lights, 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gathered in her prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down through town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men revealed 
The fullness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down. 
Who God- like grasps the triple forks, 

And king-like wears the crown. 

Her open eyes desire the truth, 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 
Make bright our days and light our dreams, 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 


FREDOME is a nobill thing! 
Fredome mayse man to haiff liking! 
Fredome all solace to man giffis : 
He levys at ese that frely levys ! 
A noble hart may haiff nane ese, 
rJa ellys nocht that may him plese, 
Gyff fredome failythe : for fre liking 
Is yearnyt our all othir thing 

Ka he, that ay hase levyt fre, 
May nocht knaw weill the propyrte, 
The angyr, na the wrechyt dome, 
That is cowplyt to foule thyrldorne. 
Bot gyff he had assayit it, 
Than all perquer he suit itiwyt; 
And suld think fredome mar to pryse 
Than all the gold in warld that is. 

John Barbour. 




/~\ FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
\s> Some boundless continuity of shade. 
Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful and successful war, 
Might never reach me more. My ear is pained, 
My soul is sick, with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 
It does not feel for man, the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 
That falls asunder at the touch of Are. 
He finds, his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not colored like his own ; and having power 
To enforce the wrong, for such a worth}- cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
Make enemies of nations, who had else 

Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; 
And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 
Weeps when she seees inflicted on a beast. 
Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not blush 
And hang his head to think himself a man? 
I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave, 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 

William Cowper. 



mB HA YE seen the sea lashed into fury and tossed into spray, and its grandeur moves 
W& the soul of the dullest man; but I remember that it is not the billows, but the calm 
» level of the sea, from which all heights and depths are measured. When the storm 
5 5 has passed and the hour of calm settles on the ocean, when the sunlight bathes its 
smooth surface, then the astronomer and surveyor take the level from which to meas- 
ure all terrestrial heights and depths. Gentlemen of the convention, your present temper 
may not mark the healthful pulse of our people when our enthusiasm has passed. When 
the emotions of this hour have subsided we shall find that calm level of public opinion 
below the storm, from which the thoughts of a mighty people are to be measured, and by 
which their final action will be determined. Not here in this brilliant circle, where fifteen 
thousand men and women are assembled, is the destiny of the Republican party to be 
declared. Not here, where I see the faces of seven hundred and fifty-six delegates waiting 
to cast their votes in the urn and determine the choice of the republic, but by four million 
Eepublican firesides, where the thoughtful voters, with wives and children about them, 
with the calm thoughts inspired by the love of home and country, with the history of the 
past, the hopes of the future, and a knowledge of the great men who have adorned and 
blessed our nation in days gone by — there God prepares the verdict that shall determine the 
wisdom of our work to-night. Not in Chicago, in the heats of June, but in the sober quiet 
that comes to them between now and November ; in the silence of deliberate judgment will 
the great question be settled. 

James A. Garfield. 

■ s»s«-eE=! 

mHREEDOM who loves, must first be wise and 
ssstls good ; 

But from that mark how far they rove we see, 
For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood. 

fH.0 can in reason then or right assume 
Monarchy over such as live by right 
His equals, if in pow'r or splendor less, 
In freedom equal. 




FOR a tongue to curse the slave, 

Whose treason, like a deadly blight, 
Comes o'er the councils of the "brave, 

And blasts them in their horn- oT might! 
May life's unblessed cup for him 
Be drugged with treacheries to the brim, — 
With hopes that but allure to fly, 

With joys that vanish while he sips, 
Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye, 

But turn to ashes on the lips. 


His country's curse, his children's shame, 
Outcast of virtue, peace, aud fame ; 
May he, at last, with lips of flame 
On the parched desert, thirsting, die,— 
While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh, 
Are fading off, untouched, untasted, 
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
And when from earth his spirit flies, 

Just Prophet, let the damued one dwell 
Full in the sight of Paradise, 
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell! 

Thomas Moore. 


SACRED Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to 
*t* smile, 

¥ When leagued Oppression poured to Northern 
1 wars 

Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet-horn ; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man! 

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — 
" O Heaven ! " he cried, " my bleeding country save, — 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? 
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 
Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
By that dread name we wave the sword on high! 
And swear for her to live! — with her to die! " 

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed 
His trust}' warriors, few, but undismayed; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
Revenge, or death! — the watchword and reply; 
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm! — 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew: — 
O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! 
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; — 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciusko fell. 

Thomas Campbell. 



lUfREEN fields of England ! whereso'er 
Across this watery waste we fare, 
Your image at our hearts we bear, 
Green fields of England, everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
Past where the waves' last confines be, 

Ere your loved smile I cease to see, 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 

Dear home in England, safe and fast, 
If but in thee my lot be cast, 
The past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last; 
Dear home in England, won at last. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 


sTPCTERNAL spirit of the chainless mind! 
e*^ Brightest in dungeons, Libertv! thou art: 
styf\ Por there thy habitation is the heart — 
J4 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom — 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Lord Byron. 




|T Bannockburn the English lay — 
The Scots they were na far away, 

TBut waited for the break o' day 
That glinted in the east ; 

But soon the sun broke through the heath 
And lighted up that field o' death. 
When Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath, 
His heralds thus addressed :— 

Scots, who hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour, 
See the front o' battle lour; 
See approach proud Edward's power ^ 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's kiug and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ? 
Let him follow me ! 

By Oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty 's in every blow ! 
Let us do, or die! 

Robert Burns. 


|AY down the axe, fling by the spade ; 

Leave in its track the toiling plough ; 
The rifle and the bayonet-blade 

For arms like yours are litter now ; 
And let the hands that ply the pen 

Quit the light task, and learn to wield 
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein 

The charger on the battle-field. 

Our country calls ; away ! away ! 

To where the blood-stream blots the green, 
Strike to defend the gentlest sway 

That Time in all his course has seen. 
See, from a thousand coverts — see 

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track ; 
They rush to smite her down, and we 

Must beat the banded traitors back. 

Ho ! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, 

And moved as soon to fear and flight; 
Men of the glade and forest! leave 

Your woodcraft for the field of fight. 
The arms that wield the axe must pour 

An iron tempest on the foe ; 
His serried ranks shall reel before 

The arm that lays the panther low. 

And ye who breast the mountain storm 
By grassy steep or highland lake, 

Come, for the land ye love, to form 
A bulwark that no foe can break. 

Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock 
The whirlwind ; stand in her defence : 

The blast as soon shall move the rock, 
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. 

And ye, whose homes are by her grand 

Swift rivers, rising far away, 
Come from the depth of her green land 

As mighty in your march as they ; 
As terrible as when the rains 

Have swelled them over bank and bourne, 
With sudden floods to drown the plains 

And sweep along the woods uptorn. 

And ye who throng beside the deep. 

Her ports and hamlets of the strand, 
In number like the waves that leap 

On his long murmuring marge of sand, 
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim, 

He rises, all his floods to pour, 
And flings the proudest barks that swim, 

A helpless wreck against his shore. 

Few, few were they whose swords of old, 

Won the fair land in which we dwell ; 
But we are many, we who hold 

The grim resolve to guard it well. 
Strike for that broad and goodly land, 

Blow after blow, till men shall see 
That Might and Right move hand in hand, 

And glorious must their triumph be. 

William Cullen Bryant. 




*HAT constitutes a state? 

Not high-raised battlement or labored 
Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets 
crowned ; 
Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No : — • men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, — 

Men who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain; 
Prevent the loug-aimed blow. 

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain, — 

These constitute a state; 
And sovereign law, that state's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks ; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks ; 

Such was this heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall freedom smile? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? 

Since all must life resign, 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'T is folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sir William Jones. 


6EEATHES there the man with soul so dead, 
R Who never to himself hath said, 
This is mj' own, my native land! 
* Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 

Prom wandering on a foreign strand? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell ! 

High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim : 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



nTT'S hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
«A» An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 
^gr When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on 
I the tree, 

1 The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree; 
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa', 
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a' ; 
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, 
An' green it will grow in my ain countree. 
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! 

There's naught now frae ruin my country can save 
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, 
That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie 
May rise again and fight for their ain countree. 
It's hame, an' it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! 

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save, 
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; 
But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my ee, 
'T'llshine on ye yet in your ain countree." 
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! 

Allan Cunningham. 


' Charged with Abercrombie's doom, 
Lightning wing'd a cruel ball." 


fXT^AKP of Memnnn ! sweetly strung 
To the music of the spheres ; 
While the Hero's dirge is sung, 
Breathe enchantment to our ears. 

Let thy numbers, soft and slow. 

O'er the plain with carnage spread 
Soothe the dying while they flow 

To the memory of the dead. 

Lashed to madness hy the wind, 
As the Red Sea surges roar 

Leave a gloomy gulf behind, 
And devour the shrinking shore. 

Thus, with overwhelming pride, 
Gallia's brightest, boldest boast, 

In a deep and dreadful tide, 
Boll'd upon the British host. 




Now the veteran Chief drew nigh, 
Conquest towering on his crest, 

Valor beaming from his eye, 
Pity bleeding on his breast. 

On the whirlwind of the war 
High he rode in vengeance dire ; 

To his friends a leading star, 
To his foes consuming fire. 

Charged with Abercrombie's doom, 
Lightning wing'd a cruel ball: 

'Twas the Herald of the Tomb, 
And the Hero felt the call — 

Felt — and raised his arms on high ; 

Victory well the signal knew, 
Darted from his awful eye, 

And the force of France o'erthrew. 

Harp of Memnon ! sweetly strung 

To the music of the spheres ; 
While the Hero's dirge is sung, 

Breathe enchantment to our ears. 

Let thy numbers, soft and slow, 
O'er the plain with carnage spread, 

Soothe the dying while they flow 
To the memory of the dead. 

Then thy tones triumphant pour, 
Let them pierce the Hero's grave; 

Life's tumultuous battle o'er, 
O, how sweetly sleep the brave ! 

From the dust their laurels bloom, 
High they shoot and flourish free ; 

Glory's temple is the tomb ; 
Death is immortality. 

James Montgomery. 



| AIR stood the wind' for France, 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 
At Kause, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 
Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnished in warlike sort, 
Marched toward Agincourt 

In happy hour ; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way, 
Where the French general lay 

With all his power. 

Which in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide 

To the king sending; 
Which he neglects the while, 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet, with an angry smile, 

Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then : 
Though they to one be ten, 

Be not amazed ; 
Yet have we well begun, 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

And for myself, quoth he, 
This my full rest shall be ; 
England ne'er mourn for me, 

Nor more esteem me. 
Victor I will remain, 
Or on this earth lie slain; 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell, 

When most their pride did swell, 

Under our swords they fell. 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Henry sped 

Amongst his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there : 
O Lord ! how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen. 

They now to fight are gone ; 
Armor on armor shone ; 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake, 
Trumpet to trumpet spake. 

Thunder to thunder. 



Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham ! 
Which did the signal aim 

To our hid forces ; 
When, from a meadow by 
Like a storm suddenly, 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung, 

Piercing the weather; 
None from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts, 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilboes drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy : 
Arms were from shoulders sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent; 
Down the French peasants went; 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king, 
His broadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding, 
As to o'erwhelm it; 

And many a deep wound rent 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent, 
Bruised his helmet. 

Glo'ster, that duke so good 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade ; 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up. 
Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray, 
Which Fame did not delay 

To England to carry. 
O, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 

Michael Drayton- 


E mariners of England 
That guard our native seas ; 
Whose flag has braved a thousand years 
The battle and the breeze, 
Your glorious standard launch again 
To match another foe, 
And 'sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow; 
WTiile the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave ; 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain- waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn ; 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors, 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell. 




A»iND Ardennes waves above them her sreen 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass ; 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave; — alas! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this flery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
The midnight brought the signal- sound of strife. 
The morn the marshaling in arms — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Eider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! 

Their praise is hymned b} r loftier harps than none ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when showered 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered, 
They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, 
gallant Howard ! 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turned from all she brought, to those she could not 

Lord Byron. 

TlYrHERE was a so and of revelry by night, 
s-~£s And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
ngy< Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fan - women and brave 

men ; 
A thousaud hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising 

Did ye not hear it? No ; 't was but the wind 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet; 
But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 


The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 

And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips, — "The foe! They 
come ! they come ! " 

And wild and high the "The Cameron's gather- 
ing" rose! 
The war-notes of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes ; — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which Alls 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instills 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's 
ears ! 

Lord Byron. 




ALF a league, half a league, 
Hall a league omvard, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
"Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
Into the valley of Death 
Bode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade! " 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not though the soldiers knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Bode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 
Bode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered : 
Blunged in the battery-smoke, 
Bight through the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Bussian 
Heeled from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered : 
When can their glory fade? 
O, the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 


jfrVE us a song! " the soldiers cried, 
"™ The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Bedan, in silent scoff, 
Lay grim and threatening under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
"We storm the forts to-morrow; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon : 
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory: 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all saug "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, - 
Until its tender passion 

Bose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 
Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 

But as the song grew louder, 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 

The bloody sunset's embers, 
While the Crimean valleys learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a Are of hell 
Bained on the Bussian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars. 

And Irish Norah's eyes are dim 

For a singer dumb and gory; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of " Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest 

Your truth and valor wearing; 
The bravest are the tenderest — 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayakd Taylor. 




Linden, when the sun was low, 
All Woodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Jl Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

The combatdeepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Ear flashed the red artillery. 

Few, few shall part where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 



aN" their ragged regimentals, 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
When the grenadiers were lunging, 
And like hail fell the plunging 
When the files 
Of the isles, 
From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner 
of the rampant 

And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of 
the drummer, 

Through the morn ! 

Then with eyes to the front all, 
And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires ; 
And the balls whistled deadly, 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires ; 
As the roar 
On the shore, 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sod- 
ded acres 

Of the plain ; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun- 

Cracking amain ! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoneers ; 
And the "villainous saltpetre" 
Bung a fierce, discordant metre 
Bound their ears ; 
As the swift 
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' 

On our flanks : 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fash- 
ioned fire 

Through the ranks! 

Then the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

And his broad-sword was swinging 
And his brazen throat was ringing 
Trumpet loud. 
Then the blue 
Bullets flew, 
And the trooper- jackets redden at the touch of the 

Rifle-breath ; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six- 

Hurling death ! 

Gur Humphrey McMaster. 




[Sept. 19-24, 1S46.] 

E were not many — we who stood 
Before the iron sleet that day ; 
fip Yet many a gallant spirit would 
1 Give half his years if hut he could 
Have with us heen at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
"When wounded comrades round him wailed 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on — still on our column kept, 

Through walls of flame, its withering way ; 
Where fell the dead, the living stept, 
Still charging on the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past, 
And, braving full their murderous blast. 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave, 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange-boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey? 

Chakles Fenno Hoffman. 

•o°-3-£« «■•• 


His truth is marching on. 

MkINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 

pPI the Lord : his heel, 

?(<$*. He is trampling out the vintage where the Since God is marching on." 

grapes of wrath are stored : _ , ,■,.,,, 

-rr £ j.r. 1 j 4.x. j: » * i t vi_- * v.- i -i-T He has sounded f orth the trumpet that shall never call 

He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible, l a^cvci. ^«i 

.... & » retreat: 

swift sword : „..„.,, 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment- 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of ahundred circling O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, 

camps; my feet! 

They have builded him an altar in the evening dews Our God is marching on. 

and damps; 

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flar- In tbe beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the 

ing lamps : sea ' 

His day is marching on. Wlth a §' loiT in his bosom tnat transfigures you and 


I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men 

steel : free, 

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my "While God is marching on. 

grace shall deal ; JuLIA Ward Hovns. 



ftjTpTE despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life or death, for woe or weal, 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 



Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy "beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust, 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust, 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day 

Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland! 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, 
" Sic semper ! " 'tis the proud refrain 
That baffles minions hack amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with Liberty along, 
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
Rut thou wast ever bravery meek, 

Maryland ! 
Rut lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
Erom hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Retter the fire upon thee roll, 
Retter the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland I 

I hear the distant thunder-hum ! 

Maryland ! 
The " Old Line's " bugle, fife and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum — 
She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll comet 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

James R. Randall. 



" "^'LAS ! the weary hours pass slow, 
' ' The night is very dark and still ; 
And in the marshes far below 
I hear the bearded whippoorwill ; 
I scarce can see a yard ahead, 

My ears are strained to catch each sound ; 
I hear the leaves about me shed, 
And the spring's bubbling through the ground. 

Along the beaten path I pace, 

Where white rags mark my sentry's track; 
In formless shrubs I seem to trace 

The foeman's form with bending back, 
I think I see him crouching low : 

I stop and list — I stoop and peer, 
Until the neighboring hillocks grow 

To groups of soldiers far and near. 

With ready piece I wait and watch, 

Until my eyes, familiar grown, 
Detect each harmless earthern notch, 

And turn guerrillas into stone ; 

And then, amid the lonely gloom, 
Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, 

My silent marches I resume, 

And think of other times than these. 

"Halt! AVho goes there?" my challenge cry, 

It rings along the watchful line ; 
"Relief !" I hear a voice reply; 

"Advance, and give the countersign!" 
With bayonet at the charge I wait — 

The corporal gives the mystic spell; 
With arms aport I charge my mate, 

Then onward pass, and all is well. 

Rut in the tent that night awake, 

I ask, if in the fray I fall, 
Can I the mystic answer make 

When the angelic sentries call? 
And pray that Heaven may so ordain, 

Where'er I go, what fate be mine, 
Whether in pleasure or in pain, 

I still may have the countersign. 




»iS||LL quiet along the Potomac," they say, 
ggif&t " Except now and then a stray picket 
yjjj Is shot, as he walks on his heat to and fro, 
'%»' By a rifleman hid in the thicket; 

'T is nothing — a private or two now and then 
Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men, 
Moaning out, all alone, his death-rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, 

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping; 
While stars up above, with their glittering ej r es, 

Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 

There 's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 

And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 

His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, 
Grows gentle with memories tender, 

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 
For their mother — may Heaven defend her! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 

That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree — 

The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night- wind that rustled the leaves? 

Was it moonlight so suddenly flashing? 
It looked like a rifle "Ah! Mary, good-bye!" 

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night; 

No sound save the rush of the river; 
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 

The picket 's off duty forever! 

Ethel Lynn Beeks. 



9$EfE mustered at midnight, in darkness we formed, As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and flute, 

^cl! A>- And the whisper went round of a fort to be So we skipped from the shadows, and mocked their 
TiqfK stormed ; pursuit ; 

If But no drum-beat had called us, no trumpet But the soft zephyrs chased us, with scents of the 
we heard, morn, 

And no voice of command, but our Colonel's low As we passed by the hay-fields and green waving 
word, — corn, — 

" Column ! Forward ! " " Column ! Forward ! " 

And out, through the mist and the murk of the morn, 
From the beaches of Hampton our barges were borne ; 
And we heard not a sound, save the sweep of the 

Till the word of our Colonel came up from the shore — 
" Column ! Forward ! ' ' 

With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes all alight, 
As ye dance to soft music, so trod we that night; 
Through the aisles of the greenwood, with vines over- 
Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our feet, as we 
marched, — 

" Column ! Forward ! " 

For the leaves were all laden with fragrance of June, 
And the flowers and the foliage with sweets were in 

tune ; 
And the air was so calm, and the forest so dumb, 
That we heard our own heart-beats, like taps of a 

drum, — 

" Column ! Forward ! " 

Till the lull of the lowlands was stirred by a breeze, 
And the buskins of Morn brushed the tops of the 

And the glintings of glory that slid from her track 
By the sheen of our rifles were gayly flung back, — 
" Column ! Forward ! " 



And the woodlands grew purple with sunshiny mist, 

And the blue-crested hill-tops with roselight were 

And the earth gave her praj-ers to the sua iu per- 

Till we marched as through gardens, and trampled on 
blooms, — 

" Column ! Forward ! " 

Ay! trampled on blossoms, and seared the sweet 

Of the greenwood with low-brooding vapors of death ; 
O'er the flowers and the corn we were borne like a 

And away to the fore-front of battle we passed,— 
" Column ! Forward ! " 

For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared out from the 

And the sun was like lightning on banners and 


When the long line of chanting Zouaves, like a flood, 
From the green of the woodlands rolled, crimson as 
blood, — 

"Column! Forward!" 

While the sound of their song, like the surge of the 

With the "Star-Spangled Banner" swelled over the 

leas ; 
And the sword of Duryea, like a torch led the way, 
Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel that day, — 
" Column ! Forward ! " 

And like corn by the red scythe of fire we were mown; 
While the cannon's fierce ploughings new -furrowed 

the plain, 

That our blood might be planted for Liberty's grain, — 

' ' Column ! Forward ! " 

Augustine J. H. Duganne. 

-vS— skt-EL- 


"ipllFLEMAN', shoot mo a fancy shot 

*-V; Straight at the heart of yon prowling 
vidette ; 
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 
That shines on his breast like an amulet! " 

"Ah, Captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead 
There 's music around when 1113- barrel 's in tune ! " 

Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped, 
And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. 

"Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch 
From your victim some trinket to handsel first 
blood — 

A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud." 

"O Captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, 
When I gazed on the face of that f alien vidette ; 

For he looked so like you as he lay on his back, 
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. 

"But I snatched off the trinket — this locket of gold; 

An inch from the centre my lead broke its way, 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 

"Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket! — 'tis she, 
My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon 

Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 't was Heaven's 
decree ; 
We must bury him here, by the light of the moon! 

"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; 

War is a virtue — -weakness a sin; 
There 's lurking and loping around us to-night; 

Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in! " 

Charles Dawson Shanlt. 



OWN the picket-guarded lane 
Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 
Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 

Soldier-like and merry : 
Phrases such as camps may teach, 
Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, 
Such as " Bully ! " " Them's the peach ! " 
"Wade in, Sanitary! " 

Right and left the caissons drew 
As the car went lumbering through, 
Quick succeeding in review 

Squadrons military; 
Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, 
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, — 
" U. S. San. Com." " That's the cheese! " 

" Pass in, Sanitary! " 



In such cheer it struggled on 
Till the battle front was won, 
Then the car, its journey done, 

Ijo! was stationary; 
And where bullets whistling fly, 
Came the sadder, fainter ciy, 
" Help us, brothers, ere we die,- 

Save us, Sanitary! " 

Such the work. The phantom flies, 
Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ; 
But the brave — ■ whose dying eyes, 

Veiled and visionary, 
See the jasper gates swung wide, 
See the parted throng outside — 
Hears the voice to those who ride : 

" Pass in, Sanitary I " 

Bket Haete. 

" How he strode his brown steed ! How we saw his blade brighten 
In the one hand still left, — and the reins in his teeth ! " 


[May 31, 1S62.] 

IHO that soldierly legend is still on its journey, — Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose 

That story of Kearney who knew not to highest, 

yield ! Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf 

'T was a day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, oak and pine, 

and Birney, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nigh- 

Against twenty thousand he rallied the • est, — 

field, No charge like Phil Kearney's along the whole line. 



When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, 
Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our 
He rode down the length of the withering column, 

And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound ; 

He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of our powder, — 

His sword waved us on and we answered the sign : 

Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the 


"There 's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole 


How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his 
blade brighten 
In the one hand still left, — and the reins in his 
teeth ! 
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, 
But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. 

Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 

Asking where to go in, — through the clearing or 

'•O, anywhere! Forward! 'T is all the same, Colonel : 
You '11 find lovely fighting along the whole line! " 

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 

That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried ! 
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, 
The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's 
pride ! 
Yet we dream that he still, — in that shadowy region 
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drum- 
mer's sign, — 
Hides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, 
And the word still is Forward! along the whole 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 


[The " Carrier's New Year Address" of The Louisville Journal, January i, 1S63.] 

i^HgS' Carrier cannot sing to-day the bal- 
■3g» lads 

With which he used to go 
Bhyming the glad rounds of the happy JVew 

That are now beneath the snow: 

For t?ie same awful and portentous Shadow 

That overcast the earth, 
And smote the land last year with desolation, 

Still darkens every hearth. 

And the Carrier hears Beethoven's mighty 
Come up from every mart, 
And he hears and feels it breathing in his 
And beating in his heart. 

And to-day, a scarred and weather-beaten 

Again he comes along, 
To tell the story of the Old Tear's struggles 

In another JVew Tear's song. 

And the song is his, but not so with the story/ 

For the story, yoti must know, 
Was told in prose to Assistant-Surgeon 

By a soldier of Shiloh : 

By ^Robert Burton, who was brought up on 
the Adams, 
With his death-wound in his side; 

And who told the story to the Assistant Sur- 
On the same night that tie died. 

But the singer feels it will better suit the bal- 

If all should deem it right, 
To tell the story as if tuhat it speaks of 

Had happened but last night. 

"Come a little nearer, Doctor, — thank you; let me 

take the cup : 
Draw your chair up, — draw it closer; just another 

little sup ! 
May be you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty 

well used up, — 
Doctor, you've 'flone all you could do, but I'm just 

a-going up! 

" Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it aint much 

use to try" — 
" Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered 

down a sigh ; 
"It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say 

die! " 
"What you say will make no difference, Doctor, 

when you come to die." 

"Doctor, what has been the matter?" "You were 

very faint, they say; 
You must try to get to sleep now." "Doctor, have I 

been away? " 


"Not that anybody knows of! " "Doctor — Doctor, "Dr. Austin! — what day is this?" " It is Wedaes~ 

please to stay! day night, you know." 

There is something I must tell you, and you won't "Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right 

have long to stay ! good time below ! 

What time is it, Dr. Austin?" "Nearly Twelve." 

" I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now " Then don't you go ! 

t0 o. . Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an 

Doctor, did you say I fainted?— but it couldn't ha' hour a g o! 

been so, 

For as sure as I'm a Sergeaut, and was wounded at "There was where the gunboats opened on the dark 

Shiloh rebellious host; 

I've this very night been back there, on the old field And where Webster semi-circled his last guns upon 

of Shiloh! the coast; 

There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or 

"This is all that I remember: The last time the . else then- ghost— 

Lighter came -A- 11 ^ tne same old transport came and took me over — 

And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises or its ghost! 

much the same, 

He had not been gone five minutes before something " And th e old field lay before me, aU deserted, far 

called my name : and wide : 

'Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton! '—just There was where they fell on Prentiss — there Mc- 

that way it called my name. Clernand met the tide; 

There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where 

" And I wondered who could call me so distinctly Hurlbut's heroes died, — 

and so slow Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept 

Knew it couldn't be the Lighter, he could not have charging till he died. 

spoken so, 

And I tried to answer, 'Here, sir! ' but I couldn't " There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was 

make it go; of the canny kin, 

For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make it There was where old Nelson thundered, and where 

g 0< Rousseau waded in ; 

There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began 

" Then I thought : It's all a nightmare, all a humbug to wln 

and a bore- There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we 

Just another foolish grape-vine* — and it won't come began to win. 

any more ; 

But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way " ^ ow ' a shroud of snow and silence over everything 

as before: was spread; 

' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton !' — even And but for thi s old blue mantle and the old hat on 

louder than before. my head, 

I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was 

" That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of dead, — 

lio-ht, For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the 

And I stood beside the River, where we stood that dead! 

Sunday night, 

Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, « D eat n and silence ! — Death and silence ! all around 

When the river was perdition, and all hell was oppo- me as j sped ! 

site . ^3 behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded to the 


" And the same old palpitation came again in all its To the Heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty 

power, head. 

And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving 

Tower ; from its head ! 
And the same mysterious voice said: 'It is the 

Eleventh Hour! ,,-r, , , . ,, , , ., , . , ,, 

„ ,, „ "Round and mighty based it towered up into the 

Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton — it is the . „ ... 

■p HI' infinite — 

And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft 

* A false story , a hoax. SO bright ; 



For it shone like solid sunshine ; and a winding stair 'But the great Tower?' 'That was builded of the 

of light great deeds of the Brave ! ' 

Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out 

of sight! "Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of 


" And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and At my own so old and battered, and at his so new and 

dazzled stare, — bright; 

Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the 'Ah!' said he, 'you have forgotten the new uniform to- 
great stair, — night!' 

Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of— 'Halt!' and 'Hurry back, — you must be here at just twelve o'clock 

'Who goes there?' to-night!' 

'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are!' 'Then advance, sir, 

to the Stair!' "And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there 

and I 

"I advanced I That sentry, doctor, was Elijah Bal- Doctor — did you hear a footstep? Hark! — God bless 

lantyne ! you all ! Good bye ! 

First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, 

the line ! when I die, 

'Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by To my son— my son that's coming — he won't get here 

that countersign ! ' till I die ! 

And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak 

of mine. "Tell him his old father blessed him — as he never did 

before, — 

"As he grasped my hand I shuddered, thinking only And to carry that old musket" Hark! a knock is 

of the grave; at the door! 

But he smiled and pointed upward, with a bright and "Till the Union" See! it opens! -"Father! 

bloodless glaive : Father ! speak once more ! " 

'That's the way, sir, to Headquarters.' 'What Head- '■'■Bless you" — gasped the old gray Sergeant. And he 

quarters?' 'Of the Brave!' lay and said no more ! 


4. 2^&S^ ~$. 


(jsP from the South at break of day 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon's bar; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
Making the blood of the listener cold, 
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down; 

And there through the flush of the morning lig? , 

A steed as black as the steeds of night 

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight. 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with his utmost speed ; 

Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth, 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The beart of the steed and the heart of the master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battlefield calls ; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind, 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of lire. 

But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only Ave miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; 

What was done, — what to do, — a glance told him 

And striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 



He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger was 

By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day." 

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Uniou sky, — 
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, — 
There with the glorious General's name 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
" Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester, — -twenty miles away! " 

Thomas Buchanan Bead. 

: 'He's in the saddle now! — Fall in! 
Steady, the whole brigade!" 


fjOME, (fbeerily, men, pile on the rails, 
And stir the camp-fires bright ; 
No matter if the canteen fails. 

We'll have a roaring night! 
Here Shenandoah brawls along, 
There burly Blue-Ridge echoes strong, 
To swell the brigade's rousing song 
Of Stonewall Jaeksou's way! 

We see him now — his old slouched hat 

Cocked o'er his eye askew. 
His shrewd, dry smile, his speech so pat, 

So calm, so blunt, so true ; 
The blue-light Elder knows 'em well. 
Says he, "That's Banks— he's fond of shell! 
Lord save his soul — we'll give him Hell!" 

That's Stonewall Jackson's way ! 



Silence ! Ground arms ! Kneel all ! Hats off ! 

Old Stonewall's going to pray! 
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff ! 

Attention ! "Tis his way ! 
Kneeling upon his native sod 
In forma pauperis to God — 
"Lay bare thine arm ! Stretch forth thy rod ! 

Amen!" That's Stonewall's way! 

He's in the saddle now — Fall in ! 

Steady, the whole brigade ! 
Hill's at the Ford, cut off ! We'll win 

His way out, hall or blade ! 
No matter if our shoes he worn, 
No matter if our feet be torn, — 
Quick step ! We'll with him before morn, 

In Stonewall Jackson's way ! 

The sun's bright lances rout the mists 
Of morning, and, by George ! — 

There's Longstreet struggling in the lists, 
Hemmed by an ugly gorge ; 

"Pope and his Yankees whipped before ! 

Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar; 

"Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score, ■ 
In Stonewall Jackson's way!" 

Ah, woman ! wait, and watch, and yearn 

For news of Stonewall's band ! 
Ah, widow ! read with eyes that burn 

That ring upon thy hand ! 
Ah, maiden! weep on, hope on, pray on I 
Thy lot is not so all forlorn — 
The foe had better ne'er been horn 

That gets in Stonewall's way ! 

J. W. Palmer. 


6P from the meadows rich with corn, 
!§§§§ Clear in the cool September morn, 

U The clustered spires of Frederick stand, 
T Green -walled by the hills of Maryland. 


Round about them orchards sweep, 

Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord, 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 

On tbat pleasant morn of the early Fall, 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 

Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled down. 

In her attic-window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel-tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 

"Halt! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 
"Fire! " — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash, 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag! " she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came ; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word. 

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog! March on! " he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet; 

All day long that free flag tossed 
Over' the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 

And the rebel rides on his raids ao more. 



Honor to her! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town. 

John Greenleaf Whittiee. 


SAVE you heard the story the gossips tell 
JSfp Of John Burns of Gettysburg?— No? Ah, well, 
Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
| Briefer the story of poor John Burns ; 
1 He was the fellow who won renown — 
. The only man who didn't back down 
When the rebels rode through his native town ; 
But held his own in the fight next day, 
When all his townsfolk ran away. 
That was in July, sixty-three, — 
The very day that General Lee, 
The flower of Southern chivalry, 
Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 

I might tell how, but the day before, 
John Burns stood at his cottage-door, 
Looking down the village street, 
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
He heard the low of his gathered kine, 
And felt their breath with incense sweet; 
Or, I might say, when the sunset burned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 
The milk that fell in a babbling flood 
Into the milk-pail, red as blood ; 
Or, how he fancied the hum of bees 
Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 

But all such fanciful thoughts as these 

Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 

Who minded only his own concerns, 

Troubled no more by fancies fine 

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine, 

Quite old-fashioned, and matter-of-fact, 

Slow to argue, but quick to act. 

That was the reason, as some folks say, 

He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 
Paged for houi-s the heavy fight, 
Thundered the battery's double bass 
Difficult music for men to face ; 
While on the left — where now the graves 
Undulate like the living waves 
That all the day unceasing swept 
Up to the pits the rebels kept — 
Round-shot plowed the upland glades, 
Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; 

Shattered fences here and there 

Tossed their splinters in the air ; 

The veiy trees were stripped and bare; 

The barns that once held yellow grain 

Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 

The cattle bellowed on the plain, 

The turkeys screamed with might and main, 

And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 

With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns, 
Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns. 

How do you think the man was dressed? 

He wore an ancient, long buff vest, 

Yellow as saffron — but his best; 

And, buttoned over his manly breast 

Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar, 

And large gilt buttons — size of a dollar — 

With tails that country-folk called " swaller." 

He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 

White as the locks on which it sat. 

Never had such a sight been seen 

For forty years on the village-green, 

Since John 3urns was a country beau, 

And went to the " quilting " long ago. 

Close at his elbows, all that day 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away, 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in — 

Glanced as they passed at the hat he wore, 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore; 

And hailed him from out their youthful lore, 

With scraps of a slangy re.portoire : 

" How are you, White Hat? " "Put her through? " 

" Your head's level! " and, " Bully for you! " 

Called him " Daddy " — and begged he'd disclose 

The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those ; 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 

Stood there picking the rebels off — 

With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, 

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

'Twas but a moment, for that respect 

Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 



And something the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; 
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, 
In the antique vestments and long white hair 
The Past of the Nation in battle there. 
And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
That day was their oriflamme of war. 

Thus raged the battle. You know the rest; 
How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge and ran. 
At which John Burns — a practical man — 
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 
And then went back to his bees and cows. 

This is the story of old John Burns ; 

This is the moral the reader learns : 

In fighting the battle, the question's whether 

You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather. 

Bret Harte. 


S§PliIGIITY and nine with their captain, 
«*« Rode on the enemy's track, 
2k Rode in the gray of the morning — 
* Nine of the ninety came back. 

Slow rose the mist from the river, 
Lighter each moment the way ; 

Careless and tearless and fearless 
Galloped they on to the fray. 

Singing in tune, how the scabbards, 
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang, 

Clinked as the men rose in saddle, 
Fell as they sank with a clang. 

What is it moves by the river, 
Jaded and weary and weak? 

Gray-backs — a cross on their banner — 
Yonder the foe whom they seek. 

Silence ! They see not, they hear not, 
Tarrying there by the marge : 

Forward! Draw sabre! Trot! Gallop! 
Charge ! like a hurricane, charge. 

Ah ! 'twas a man-trap infernal — 
Fire like the deep pit of hell ! 

Volley on volley to meet them, 
Mixed with the gray rebel's yell. 

Ninety had ridden to battle, 

Tracing the enemy's track — 
Ninety had ridden to battle ; 

Nine of the ninety came back. 

Honor the name of the ninety; 

Honor the heroes who came 
Scatheless from five hundred muskets, 

Safe from the lead-bearing flame. 

Eighty and one of the troopers 

Lie on the field on the slain — 
Lie on the red field of honor — 

Honor the nine who remain ! 

Cold are the dead there, and gory, 
There where their life-blood was spilt; 

Back come the living, each sabre 
Red from the point to the hilt. 

Up with three cheers and a tiger! 

Let the flags wave as they come ! 
Give them the blare of the trumpet! 

Give them the roll of the drum ! 

Thomas Dunn English. 


jlpITH bray of the trumpet 

W. And roll of the drum, 

And keen ring of bugle, 

The cavalry come. 
Sharp clank the steel scabbards, 

The bridle-chains ring. 

And foam from red nostrils 

The wild charters fling. 

Tramp ! tramp ! o'er the greensward 

That quivers below, 
Scarce held by the curb-bit 

The fierce horses go ! 
And the grim-visaged colonel, 

With ear-rending shout, 
Peals forth to the squadrons 

The order,— "Trot out! " 



One hand on the sabre, 

And one on the rein, 
The troopers move forward 

In line on the plain. 
As rings the word, " Gallop! " 

The steel scabbards clank, 
And each rowel is pressed 

To a horse's hot flank : 
And swift is their rush 

As the wild torrent's flow, 
When it pours from the crag 

On the valley below. 

" Charge! " thunders the leader; 

Like shaft from the bow 
Each mad horse is hurled 

On the wavering foe. 
A thousand bright sabres 

Are gleaming in air; 
A thousand dark horses 

Are dashed on the square. 

Resistless and reckless 

Of aught. may betide, 
Like demons, not mortals, 

The wild troopers ride. 
Outright! and cut left! — 

For the parry who needs? 
The bayonets shiver 

Like wind-scattered reeds. 

Vain — vain the red volley 

That bursts from the square,— 
The random-shot bullets 

Are wasted in air. 
Triumphant, remorseless, 

Unerring as death, — ■ 
No sabre that 's stainless 

Returns to its sheath. 

The wounds that are dealt 

By that murderous steel 
Will never yield case 

For the surgeon to heal. 
Hurrah ! they are broken — 

Hurrah ! boys, they fly — 
None linger save those 

Who but linger to die. 

Rein up your hot horses 

And call in your men, — 
The trumpet sounds ' ' Kally 

To colors " again. 
Some saddles are empty, 

Some comrades are slain, 
And some noble horses 

Lie stark on the plain; 
But war 's a chance game, boys, 

And weeping is vain. 

Francis A. Durivage. 



good steeds snuff the evening air, 
Our pulses with their purpose tingle; 
The foeman's fires are twinkling there; 
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle! 

Each carbine sends its whizzing ball ; 
Now, cling! clang! forward all, 
Into the fight ! 

Dash on beneath the smoking dome : 
Through level lightnings ryallop nearer! 

One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: 
The guidons that we bear are dearer. 

Charge ! 
Cling! clang! forward all! 
Heaven help those whose horses fall : 
Cut left and right! 

They flee before our fierce attack ! 

They fall! they spread in broken surges, 
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, 
And leave the foeman to his dirges 

Wheel ! 
The bugles sound the swift recall; 
Cling! clang! backward all! 

Home, and good night! 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

J^PE took my arms, and while I forced my way 
* Through troops of foes, which did our passage 
His buckler o'er my aged father cast, 
Still fighting, still defending, as I past. 

5ATTLED troops with flowing banners pass 
"!^ Through flowery meads, delighted, nor distrust 
The smiling surface ; whilst the caverned ground 
Bursts fatal, and involves the hopes of war 
In fiery whirls. 





fELL, this is bad! " we sighing said, 
While musing round the bivouac fire, 
And dwelling with a fond desire, 
On home and comforts long since fled. 


" Our tents — they went a year ago ; 
Now kettle, spider, frying-pan 
Are lost to us, and as we can 

We live, while marching to and fro. 

" How gaily came we forth at first! 
Our spirits high, with new emprise, 
Ambitious of each exercise, 

And glowing with a martial thirst. 

"Our food has lessened, till at length 
E'en want's gaunt image seems to threat — 
A foe to whom the bravest yet 

Must yield at last his knightly strength. 

* But while we 've meat and flour enough 
The bayonet shall be our spit." 

"Equipped as for a holiday, 
With bounteous store of everything 
To use or comfort minist'ring, 

All cheerily we marched away. 

" But while we 've meat and flour enough 
The bayonet shall be our spit — 
The ramrod bake our dough on it — 

A gum-cloth he our kneading trough. 

"But as the struggle fiercer grew, 
Light marching orders came apace, — 
And baggage-wagon soon gave place 

To that which sterner uses knew. 

"We '11 bear privation, danger dare, 
While even these are left to us — 
Be hopeful, faithful, emulous 

Of gallant deeds, though hard our fare I " 



II— 1S64. 

"Three years and more," we grimly said, 
When order came to "Best at will " 
Beside the corn-field on the hill, 

As on a weary march we sped — 

" HI fed, ill clad, and shelterless, 
How little cheer in health we know! 
When wounds and illness lay us low, 

How comfortless our sore distress ! 

" Three years and more we 've met the foe 
On many a gory, hard-fought field, 
And still we swear we cannot yield 

Till Tate shall bring some deeper woe. 

" These flimsy rags, that scarcely hide 
Our forms, can naught discourage us,; 
But Hunger— ah ! it may be thus 

That Fortune shall the strife decide. 


'But while the corn-fields give supply 
We '11 take, content, the roasting-ear.' 

" Three years and more we 've struggled on,' 
Through torrid heat and winter's chill, 
Nor bated aught of steadfast will, 

Though even hope seems almost gone. 

'•But while the corn-fields give supply 
We '11 take, content, the roasting-ear, 
Nor yield us yet to craven fear , 

But still press on, to do or die! " 

Ed. Porter Thompson. 

aRJpHE fiery courser, when he hears from far 
das The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war, 
Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight, 
Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promised fight; 
On his right shoulder his thick mane reclined, 

Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind : 
Eager he stands, — then, starting with a bound, 
He turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground; 
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow; 
He bears his rider headlong on the foe. 




ffOMRADES known in marches many, 
Comrades tried in dangers many, 
Comrades bound by memories many, 

Brothers ever let us be. 
Wounds or sickness may divide us 
Marching orders may divide us, 
But whatever late betide us, 
Brothers of the heart are we. 

Comrades known by faith the clearest, 
Tried when death wae near and nearest, 
Bound we are by ties the dearest^ 

Brothers evermore to be. 
And if spared and growing older, 
Shoulder still in line with shoulder, 
And with hearts no thrill the colder, 

Brothers ever we shall be. 









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" But whatever fate betide us, 
Brothers of the heart are we." 

By communion of the banner, — 
Crimson, white, and starry banner,- 
By the baptism of the banner, 
Children of one Church are we. 

Creed nor faction can divide us, 
Kace nor language can divide us, 
Still, whatever fate betide us, 
Children of the flag are we I 

Chakles G. Halpine. 

(Miles 0'Reilly.) 


fvJTiARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful 

$ki 11(>t ,.v 

^Ksounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
K Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote, 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — The fires of death, 

The bale-fires flash on high: — from rock to 

Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the 




■ Great garments of rain wrap the desolate night.' 


f, build her long and narrow and deep! 
., She shall cut the sea with a scimetar's sweep, 
*W? Whatever betides and whoever may weep ! 


T Bring out the red wine ! Lift the glass to the 

f lip! 

1 With a roar of great guns, and a "Hip! hip! 

Hurrah ! " for the craft, we will christen the ship ! 

Dash a draught on the bow! Ah, the spar of white 

Drips into the sea till it colors the flood 
With the very own double and symbol of blood! 

Now out with the name of the monarch gigantic 
That shall queen it so grandly when surges are frantic I 
Child of Are and of iron, God save the " Atlantic! " 




All aboard, my fine fellows! "Up anchor!" the 

word — 
Ah, never again shall that order be heard, 
For two worlds will be mourning ye gone to a third! 

To the trumpet of March wild gallops the sea; 

The white-crested troopers are under the lee — 

Old World and New World and Soul- World are three. 

Great garments of rain wrap the desolate nighc; 
Sweet Heaven disastered is lost to the sight ; 
"Atlantic," crash on in the pride of tlry might I 
With thy look-out's dim cry " One o'clock, and all 
right! " 

Ho, down with the hatches! The seas come aboard! 
All together they come, like a passionate word, 
Like pirates that put every soul to the sword ! 

Their black flag all abroad makes murky the air, 
But the ship parts the night as a maiden her hair — 
Through and through the thick gloom, from land here 

to land there, 
Like the shuttle that weaves for a mourner to wear! 

Good night, proud "Atlantic!" One tick of the 

And a staggering craunch and a shivering shock — 
'Tis the flint and the steel! 'Tis the ship and the 


Deathless sparks are struck out from the bosoms of 

From the stout heart of manhood, in scintillant whirls, 
Like the stars of the Flag when the banner unfurls I 

What hundreds went up unto God in their sleep ! 
What hundreds in agony baffled the deep — 
Nobody to pray and nobody to weep ! 

Alas for the flag of the single " White Star," 
With light pale and cold as the woman's hands are 
Who, froze in the shrouds, flashed her jewels afar, 
Lost her hold on the world, and then clutched at a 

God of mercy and grace ! How the bubbles come up 
With souls from the revel, who stayed not to sup ; 
Death drank the last toast, and then shattered the 
cup ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



SHE Wind one morning sprang up from sleep, 
Saying, " Now for a frolic ! ■ now for a leap ! 
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase ! 
I'll make a commotion in every place! " 
So it swept with a bustle right through a great 

Creaking the signs, and scattering down 
Shutters ; and whisking, with merciless squalls, 
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls : 
There never was heard a much lustier shout, 
As the apples and oranges tumbled about; 
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes 
Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize. 
Then away to the field it went blustering and hum- 
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming ; 
It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows, 
And tossed the colts' manes all over their brows, 
'Till, offended at such a familiar salute, 
They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute. 

So on it went, capering, and playing its pranks, 
Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks, 
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, 
Or the traveler grave on the king's highway. 

It was not too nice to hustle the bags 
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags : 
'Twas so bold, that it feared not to play its joke 
With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak. 

Through the forest it roared, and cried, gayly, " Now, 
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow! " 
And it made them bow without more ado, 
Or cracked their great branches through and through. 
Then it rushed, like a monster, on cottage and farm, 
Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm, 
So they ran out like bees when threatened with harm. 
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their 

To see if their poultry were free from mishaps ; 
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, 
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd ; 
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, 
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to bo 

But the wind had swept on, and met in a lane 
With a school-boy, who panted and struggled in vain : 
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and 

he stood 
With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud. 
Then away went the wind in its holiday glee! 
And now it was far on the billowy sea; 
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow, 
And the little boats darted to and fro : — ■ 
But lo ! night came, and it sank to rest 
On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming west, 
Laughing to think, in its fearful fun, 
How little of mischief it had done ! 

William Howitt. 




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HAT is most striking in the Maine wilderness is the continuousness of the 
forest, with fewer open intervals, or glades, than you had imagined. 
Except the few burnt lands, the narrow intervals on the rivers, the bare 
tops of the high mountains, and the lakes and streams, the forest i8 

uninterrupted. It is even more grim and wild 

than you had anticipated — a damp and intricate 

wilderness, in the spring everywhere wet and miry. 

The aspect of the country, indeed, is universally WnW-^S^- 4 ^ 

stern and savage, excepting the distant views of 

the forest from hills, and the lake-prospects, which are mild and civilizing in a degree. 




The lakes are something which you are unprepared for; they lie up so high, exposed 
to the light, and the forest is diminished to a fine fringe on then - edges, with here and 

there a blue mountain, 
like amethyst jewels 
set around some jewel 
of the first water — so 
anterior, so superior to 
all the changes that are 
to take place on their 
shores, even now civil 
and refined, and fair as 
they can ever be. These 
are not the artificial forests of an English king — a royal preserve merely. Here prevail 
no forest-laws but those of Nature. The aborigines have never been dispossessed, nor 
Nature disforested. It is 
a country full of ever- 
green trees, of mossy sil- 
ver-birches and watery 
maples — the ground dot- 
ted with insipid, small, red 
berries, and strewn with 
damp and moss-grown 
rocks; a country diversi- 
fied with innumerable lakes 
and rapid streams, peopled 
with trout, with salmon, 
shad, and pickerel, and 
other fishes. The forest 
resounds at rare intervals 
with the note of the chick- 
adee, the blue-jay, and the 
woodpecker, the scream of 
fish-hawk and the eagle, 
the laugh of the loon, and 
the whistle of ducks along 
the solitary streams; at 
night, with the hooting of 
owls and the howlino- 
of wolves ; in summer, 
swarming with myriads of 
black flies and mosqui- 
toes, more formidable than 
wolves to the white man. 

Such is the home of the 
moose, the bear, the caribou, the wolf, the beaver, and the Indian. Who shall describe the 
inexpressible tenderness and immortal life of the grim forest, where Nature, though it be 



midwinter, is ever in her spring ; where the moss-grown and decaying trees are not old, but 
seem to enjoy a perpetual youth ; and blissful, innocent Nature, like a serene infant, is too 
happy to make a noise, except by a few tinkling, lisping birds, and trickling rills. 


We reached the dam at noon. The boatmen went through one of the log sluices in 
the bateau, where the fall was ten feet at the bottom, and took us in below. Here was the 
longest rapid in our voyage, and perhaps the running this was as dangerous and arduous a 
task as any. In shooting rapids the boatman has this problem to solve : to choose a. 
circuitous and safe course amid a thousand sunken rocks, scattered over a long distance, at 
the same time that he is moving steadily on at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. Stop he 
can not: the only question is, Where will he go? The boW-man chooses the course with all 
his eyes about him, striking broad off with his paddle, and drawing the boat by main force 
into her course. The stern-man faithfully follows the bow. Down the rapids we shot at 
a headlong rate. If we struck a rock, we were split from end to end in an instant. Now 
like a bait bobbing for some river monster amid the eddies, now darting to this side of the 
stream, now to that, gliding swift and smooth near to our destruction, or striking broad off 
with the paddle and drawing the boat to right or left with all our might in order to avoid a 
rock, we soon ran through the mile, and floated in Quakish Lake. 

After such a voyage, the troubled and angry waters, which once had seemed terrible 
and not be trifled with, appeared tamed and subdued; they had been bearded and worried 
in their channels, pricked and whipped into submission with the spike-pole and paddle, and 
all their spirit and their danger taken out of them ; and the most swollen and impetuous 
rivers seemed but playthings henceforth. I began at length to understand the boatmen's 
familiarity with and contempt for the rapids. "Those Fowler boys," said Mrs. M., " are 
perfect ducks for the water." They had run down to Lincoln, according to her, thirty or 
forty miles, in a bateau, in the night, for a doctor, when it was so dark that they could not 
see a rod before them, and the river was swollen so as to be almost a continuous rapid, so 
that the doctor cried, when they brought him up by daylight, " Why, Tom, how did you 
see to steer?" "We didn't steer much — only kept her straight." And yet they met 
with no accident. 

Hentcy D. Thoreau. 


^H LIFE on the ocean wave, We shoot through the sparkling foam, 

A home on the rolling deep ; Like an oeean-bird set free, — 

Where the scattered waters rave, Like the ocean-bird, our home 

And the winds their revels keep ! We'll find far out on the sea. 

Like an eagle caged I pine 

,-..,.!!! , . , The land is no longer in view, 

On this dull, unchanging shore: & ' 

Oh, give me the flashing brine, The clouds have be « un *> frown ; 

The spray and the tempest's roar! But wlth a st ° llt vessel and CreW ' , , 

We 11 say. Let the storm come down! 

Once more on the deck I stand And the song of our hearts shall be, 

Of my own swift-gliding craft: While the wind and the waters rave, 

Set sail ! farewell to the land ; A home on the rolling sea! 

The gale follows fair abaft. A life on the ocean wave ! 

Epes Sargent. 




all the rides since the birth of Time, 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apuleius' Golden Ass, 
Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass, 
Witch astride of a human hack, 
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart, 
By the -women of Marblehead! 

Body of turkey, head of owl, 
Wing a-droop like a rained-on fowl, 
Feathered and ruffled in every part, 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
Scores of women, old and young, 
Strong of muscle and glib of tongue, 
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, 
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead! " 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 

Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 

Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 

Bacchus round some antique vase ; 

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, 

Over and over the Mamads sang : 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead! " 

Small pity for him ! He sailed away 
From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay, — 
Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
With his own towns-people on her deck! 
"Lay by! lay by ! " they called to him;* 
Back he answered, " Sink or swim! 
Brag of your catch of fish again! " 
And off he sailed through the fog and rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
Looked for the coming that might not be ! 

What did the winds and sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sailed away? — 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Through the street, on either side, 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
Treble lent the Ash-horn's bray, 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 
Hulks of old sailors run aground, 
Shook head and fist and hat and cane, 
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead! " 

Sweetly along the Salem road 

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 

Little the wicked skipper knew 

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 

Biding there in his sorry trim, 

Like an Indian idol, glum and grim, 

Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear 

Of voices shouting far and near : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead! " 

" Hear me, neighbors ! " at last he cried, — 

"What to me is this noisy ride? 

What is the shame that clothes the skin 

To the nameless horror that lives within? 

Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, 

And hear a cry from a reeling deck! 

Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 

The hand of God and the face of the dead ! " 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, "God has touched him, — why should we?" 
Said an old wife, mourning her only son, 
" Cut the rogue's tether and let him run! " 
So with soft relentings and rude excuse, 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 
And left him alone with his shame and sin. 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 




. I™™ 

■ IS 

Mi', ' -sn 

(( Upon a rustic bridge 

We pass a gulf in which the willows dip 
Their pendant boughs." 


JESCEISTDESTG now (but cautious, lest too fast) Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, 

W A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. 

2jL We pass a gulf in which the willows dip He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, 

™f* Their pendant boughs, stooping as if to drink : Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark, 

Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, Toils much to earn a monumental pile 

We mount again, and feel at every step That may record the mischiefs he has done. 

William Cowpek. 






HE summer floats on even wing, 

Nor sails more far, nor draws more near; 
Poised calm between the budding spring 
And sweet decadence of the year. 

In shadowed fields the cattle stand, 
The dreaming river scarcely flows, 

The sky hangs cloudless o'er the land, 
And nothing comes and nothing goes. 



A pause of fullness set between 
The sowing and tbe reaping time; 

What is to be and what has been 
Joined each to each in perfect rhyme. 

So comes high noon 'twixt morn and eve, 
So comes fu._ tide 'twixt ebb and flow, 

Or midnight 'twixt the day we leave 
And that new day to which we go. 

Full, fruitful hours by growing won, 
A restful space 'mid old and new ; 

"When all there was to do is done, 
And nothing yet there is to do. 

No days like these so deeply blest, 
That look nor backward nor before ; 

Their large fulfillment, ample rest, 
Make life flow wider evermore. 

Louisa Bushnell. 

' How silent are the winds ! No billow roars ; 
But all is tranquil as Elysian shores! " 


|OOK what immortal floods the sunset pours 
Upon us. — Mark ! how still (as though in dreams 
Bound) the once wild and terrible ocean seems; 
How silent are the winds ! No billow roars : 
But all is tranquil as Elysian shores ! 
The silver margin which aye runneth round 
The moon-enchanted sea hath here no sound ; 
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors! 

What ! is the giant of the ocean dead, 

Whose strength was all unmatched beneath the sun? 

No ; he reposes ! Now his toils are done, 

More quiet than the babbling brooks is he. 

So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed, 

And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be ! 

Bryan Waller Proctok. 
(Barry Cornwall.) 

«>.-3-$>— *••- 


"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this 
day."— deut. xxxiv. 6. 

|Y Nebo's lonely mountain, 
On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in the land of Moab, 
There lies a lonely grave ; 
But no man built that sepulchre. 
And no man saw it e'er; 
For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 
That ever passed on earth ; 
Yet no man heard the trampling, 
Or saw the train go forth : 

Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes when the night is done, 

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Grows into the great sun ; 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 

And all the trees on all the hills 

Unfold their thousand leaves : 

So without sound of music 

Or voice of them that wept, 

Silently down from the mountain's crown 

The great procession swept. 



Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gray Beth-peor's height, 

Out of his rocky eyrie 

Looked on the wondrous sight; 

Perchance the lion stalking 

Still shuns that hallowed spot; 

For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

And give the bard an honored place, 

With costly marbles drest, 

In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall, 

And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rino-s 

Along the emblazoned hall. 

This was the bravest warrior 

That ever buckled sword; 

This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 

And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden peu 

On the deathless page truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

"Perchance the bald old eagle 
On gray Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his rocky eyrie 
Looked on the wondrous sight.' 

But when the warrior dieth 

His comrades of the war, 

With arms reversed and muffled drums, 

Follow the funeral car : 

They show the banners taken ; 

They tell his battles won; 

And after him lead his masterless steed, 

While peals the minute-gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 
Men lay the sage to rest, 

And had he not high honor? — 

The hillside for a pall ! 

To lie in state while angels wait, 

With stars for tapers tall! 

And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, 

Over his bier to wave, 

And God's own hand, in that lonely land, 

To lay him in his grave ! — 



In that strange grave without a name, 

Whence his uncoffined clay 

Shall break again — O wondrous thought !- 

Before the judgment-day, 

And stand, with glory wrapped around, 

On the hills he never trod, 

And speak of the strife that won our life 

With the incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely tomb in Moab's land! 

O dark Beth-peor's hill! 

Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still ; 

God hath his mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell, 

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 

Of him he loved so well. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 


"'^j^'II. Hie buxom girls that helped the boys — 
The nobler Helens of humbler Troys — 
As they stripped the husks with rustling fold 
iM. From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold. 

By the caudle-light in pumpkin bowls, 
And the gleams that showed fantastic holes 
In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, 
From the hermit glim set up within ; 

By the rarer light in girlish eyes 
As dark as wells, or as blue as skies, 
I hear the laugh when the ear is red, 
I see the blush with the forfeit paid. 

The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, 
The cider cup that the girls have kissed. 
And I see the fiddler through the dusk 
As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk! " 

The boys and girls in a double row 
Wait face to face till the magic bow 
Shall whip the tune from the violin, 
And the merry pulse of the feet begin. 

In shirt of check, and tallowed hair, 
The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair 
Like Moses' basket stranded there 

On the brink of Father Nile. 
He feels the fiddle's slender neck, 
Picks out the notes with thrum and check, 
Aud times the tune with nod and beck, 

And thinks it a weary while. 
All ready! Now he gives the call, 
Cries, "Honor to the ladies! " All 
The jolly tides of laughter fall 

And ebb in a happy smile. 

D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, 
"First couple join right hands and swing! " 
As light as any blue-bird's wing 

"Swing once and a half times round." 

Whirls Mary Martin all in bine — 
Calico gown and stockings new, 
And tinted eyes that tell you true, 

Dance all to the dancing sound. 

She flits about big Moses Brown, 
Who holds her hands to keep her down 
And thinks her hair a golden crown 

And his heart turns over once ! 
His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, 
It gives a second somerset! 
He means to win the maiden yet, 

Alas for the awkward dunce! 

" Your stoga boot has crushed my toe I " 
" I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe! " 
"You clumsy fellow! " "Pass below! " 

And the first pair dance apart. 
Then " Forward six! " advance, retreat, 
Like midges gay in sunbeam street; 
'Tis Money Musk by merry feet 

And the Money Musk by heart! 

" Three-quarters round your partner swing! " 
"Across the set! " The rafters ring, 
The girls and boys have taken wing 

And have brought their roses out! 
'Tis "Forward six! " with rustic grace, 
Ah, rarer far than — " Swing to place! " — 
Than golden clouds of old point lace 

They bring the dance about. 

Then clasping hands all — "Eight and left! " 
All swiftly weave the measure deft 
Across the woof in loving weft 

And the Money Musk is done ! 
Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, 
Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growing dusk, 
Good-night, for aye to Money Musk, 

For the heavy march begun ! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 




' HAVE fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam, "Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said. 

That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream, All the psalm-books at onee fluttered open at "York;" 

Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest, Sunned their long dotted wings in the words tbat he 
From the pillow of stone to the blue of the blest, read, 

And the angels descending to dwell with us While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, 

here, And politely picked up the key-note with a fork; 

"Old Hundred," and "Corinth," and "China," And the vicious old viol went growling along 

and "Mear." At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song. 

"While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, 
And politely picked 1 up the key-note with a fork." 

All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod, 

That those breaths can blow open to heaven and 

Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining road,— 
Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, — 
But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned 

To the girl that sang alto — the girl that sang air! 

Oh, I need not a wing — bid no genii come 

With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, 

To bear me again up the river of Time, 

When the world was in rhythm, and life was its 

rhyme — 
Where the streams of the years flowed so noiseless 

and narrow, 
That across it there floated the song of the sparrow — 



For a sprig of green caraway carries rne there, 
To the old village church, and the old village choir, 
Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung, 
And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they 

Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun 
Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun I 

You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, 
Who followed by scent, till he ran the tune down; 

And dear Sister Green, with more goodness than 

Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place, 
And where " Coronation" exultingly flows, 
Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes! 

To the land of the leal they have gone with their song, 
Where the choir and the chorus together belong. 
Oh be lifted, ye gates ! Let me hear them again — 
Blessed song, blessed singers! forever, Amen! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 



UH SEE it now, the same unchanging spot, 

Up The swinging gate, the little garden-plot, 

W, The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor, 

t The flat pale house, the knocker-garnished door. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


BEMEMBEE once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gen- 
tleman, "What river is that, sir?" "That," he said, "is Niagara river." 
"Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I, "bright and fair and glassy; how- 
far off are the rapids?" "Only a mile or two," was the reply. "Is it pos- 
sible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbuience which 
it must show near to the Falls?" "You will find it so, sir." And so I found 
it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget. Now, launch your bark on 
that Niagara river ; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and glassy. There is a ripple at the 
bow ; the silver wake you leave behind adds to the enjoyment. 



Down the stream you glide, oars, sails and helm in proper trim, and you set 
out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries out from the bank, 
"Young men, ahoy!" "What is it?" "The rapids are below you." "Ha! ha! 
we have heard of the rapids, but we are not such fools as to get there. If we 
go too fast, then we shall up with the helm and steer for the shore; we will set the 
mast in the socket, hoist the sail and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be 
alarmed — there is no danger." 

"Young men, ahoy there!" "What is it?" "The rapids are below you!" 
"Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the 
future ! No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will 
enjoy life while we may ; will catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment ; time 
enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current." 

"Young men, ahoy!" "What is it?" "Beware! Beware! The rapids are 
below you ! " Now you see the water foaming all around. See how fast you pass 
that point ! Up with the helm ! Now turn ! Pull hard ! quick ! quick ! quick ! pull 
for your lives ! pull till the blood starts from the nostrils, and the veins stand like 
whip-cords upon your brows ! Set the mast in the socket ! hoist the sail ! — ah ! ah ! 
it is too late ! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over they go. 

Thousands go over the rapids every year through the power of habit, crying 
all the while, "When I find out that it is injuring me I will give it up ! " 

John B. Gough. 



IlNDER a spreading chestnut-tree 
iSSPl The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp and black and long; 

His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, — 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
When the evening sun is low. 

And ch^dren coming home from school, 

Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from the threshinar-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach; 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 

Onward through life he goes; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close; 
Something attempted, something done, 

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must he wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 




lYTYuIE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the 
jBm fold, 

% ' And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 
J4. gold ; 

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the 

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 

Lord Byron. 



1JHE morning came, I reached the classic hall ; 

A clock-face eyed me, staring from the wall; 

Beneath its hands a printed line I read : 

Youth is Life's seed-time ; so the clock-face 
Some took its counsel, as the sequel showed, — 
Sowed — their wild oats, and reaped as they had 

How all comes back ! the upward slanting floor— 
The masters' thrones that Hank the central door — 
The long, outstretching alleys that divide 
The rows of desks that stand on either side — 

The staring boys, a face to. every desk, 

Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque. 

Grave is the master's look ; his forehead wears 

Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares ; 

Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, 

His most of all whose kiugdom is a school. 

Supreme he sits; before the awful frown 

That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down ; 

Not more submissive Israel heard and saw 

At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 




E were crowded in the cabin, 

Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 
It was midnight on the waters 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'T is a fearful thing in winter 
To he shattered hy the blast, 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, "Cut away the mast! " 

So we shuddered there in silence,— 
Tor the stoutest held his breath, 

"While the hungry sea was roaring, 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, 

Each one busy in his prayers, 
"We are lost! " the captain shouted, 

As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 

As she took his icy hand, 
"Is n't God upon the ocean 

Just the same as on the land? " 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 

And we spoke in better cheer, 
And we anchored safe in harbor, 

When the morn was shining clear. 

James Thomas Fields. 


[-'TIT' CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun; 

^*ty*^ A arleani of crimson tinsred its braided snow; 

■"^p Long had I watched the glory moving on, 
il O'er the still radiance of the lake below. 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow — 
Even in its very motion there was rest; 
"While every breath of eve that chanced to blow 
"Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west : — 


Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; 
And, by the breath of Mercy, made to roll 
Eight onward to the golden gates of heaven; 
Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 

John Wilson. (Christopher North) . 



IFE bears us on like the current of a mighty river. Our boat at first glides 
down the narrow channel, through the playful murmurings of the little brook 
and the windings of its grassy borders. The trees shed their blossoms over 
our young heads ; the flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to our young 
hands; we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around 
US; — but the stream hurries on, and still our hands are empty. Our course 



in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, amid objects more striking 
and magnificent. We are animated by the moving pictures of enjoyment and industry 
passing before us; we are excited by some short-lived success, or depressed and made 
miserable by some equally short-lived disappointment. But our energy and our depres- 
sion are both in vain. The stream bears us on, and our joys and griefs are alike 
left behind us. 

We may be shipwrecked — we cannot be delayed; whether rough or smooth, the 
river hastens to its home, till the roar of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of 
the waves is beneath our feet, and the land lessens from our eyes, and the floods are 
lifted up around us, and we take our leave of earth and its inhabitants, until of our 
further voyage there is no witness save the Infinite and Eternal. 

Reginald Hebek. 


?T I had heard of Lucy Gray; 
And when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see, at break of day, 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
The sweetest thiug that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

"To-night will be a stormy night, — 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern, child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

"That, father! will I gladly do ; 
'T is scarcely afternoon,— 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon! " 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band ; 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe : 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 
She wandered up and down ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb, 
But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on the hill they stood 
That overlooked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet; " — 
When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone wall; 

And then an open field they crossed; 
The marks were still the same ; 
The}' tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank; 
And further there were none ! 

— Y,et some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 

William Wordsworth. 





a fearful night in the winter-time, 
As cold as it ever can be ; 
The roar of the blast is heard like the chime 
Of the waves on an angry sea ; 

"The fence was lost, and the wall of 

The windows blocked, and the well- 

curbs gone." 

The moon is full, but her silver light 
The storm dashes out with its wings to-night; 
And over the sky, from south to north, 
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 
In the strength of a mighty glee. 

All day had the snow come down — all day, 

As it never came down before, 
And over the hills at sunset lay 

Some two or three feet or more : 
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
The windows blocked, and the well-curbs gone; 
The hay-stack had grown to a mountain -lift; 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 

The night sets in on a world of snow, 
While the air grows sharp and chill, 

And the warning roar of a fearful blow 
Is heard on the distant hill : 

And the Norther! See, on the mountain-peak, 

In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek ! 

He shouts on the plain, Ho-ho ! ho-ho ! 

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
And growls with a savage will. 

Such a night as this to be found abroad 

In the drifts and the freezing air ! 
Sits a shivering dog in a field by the road, 

With the snow in his shaggy hair ; 
He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls; 
He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; 
Then, crouching low from the cutting sleet, 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet; 

Pray, what does the dog do there? 

A farmer came from the village plain, 

But he lost the traveled way; 
And for hours he trod with might and main 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But colder still the cold winds blew, 
And deeper still the deep drifts grew ; 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
At last in her struggles floundered down, 

Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, 

She plunged in the drifting snow, 
While her master urged, till his breath grew short;, 

With a word and a gentle blow; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; 
His hands were numb, and had lost their might; 

' The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog 
And the beautiful Morgan brown." 

So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh. 
And strove to shelter himself till day, 
With his coat and the buffalo. 



He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, 

To rouse up his dying steed ; 
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 

For help in his master's need; 
For awhile he strives with a wistful cry, 
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, 

And whines when he takes no heed. 

The wind goes down and the storm is o'er, — 
'Tis the hour of midnight, past; 

The old trees writhe and bend no more 
In the whirl of the rushing blast ; 

The silent moon, with her peaceful light, 

Looks down on the hills with snow all white ; 

And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
Of the blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 
Afar on the plain are cast. 

But, cold and dead, by the hidden log 

Are they who came from the town, — 
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 

And his beautiful Morgan brown, — 
In the wide snow desert, far and grand, 
With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand: 
The dog with his nose on his master's feet, 
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, 
Where she lay when she floundered down. 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 


[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of 

the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and 
when the flames had reached the powder.] 

all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel. 

3|HE boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but him had fled. 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on ; he would not go 

Without his father's word ; 
The father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud, " Say, father, say, 

If yet my task be done! " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father! " once again he cried, 

"If I may yet be gone ! " 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still yet brave despair ; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

"My father! must I stay?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
And streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound ; 

The boy, — Oh! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds, that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea, — 

With shroud and mast and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part, — 

But the noblest thing that perished there 
Was that young, faithful heart. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


J§>HERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, 
iiS And the waters below look dark and deep, 
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, 
Leans gloomily over the murky tide, 
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, 
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank; 
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, 
Lies at its nioormsjs the old canoe. 

The useless paddles are idly dropped, 

Like a sea-bird's wing that the storm has lopped, 

And crossed on the railing, one o'er one, 

Like the folded hands when the work is done ; 

While busily back and forth between 

The spider stretches his silvery screen, 

And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-hoo," 

Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 



The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave, 

Eots slowly away in its living grave, 

And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay, 

Hiding the mouldering dust away, 

Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 

Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; 

While many a blossom of loveliest hue 

Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. 

The currentless waters are dead and still — 

But the light wind plays with the boat at will, 

And lazily in and out again 

It floats the length of its rusty chain, 

Like the weary march of the hands of time, 

That meet and part at the noontide chime, 

And tfre shore is kissed at each turn anew 

By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, 

I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, 

And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, 
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick, 
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side, 
And looked below in the broken tide, 
To see that the faces and boats were two 
That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 

But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side, 

And look below in the sluggish tide, 

The face that I see there is graver grown, 

And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone, 

And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings 

Have grown familiar with sterner things. 

But I love to think of the hours that flew 

As I rocked where the whirls their white spray threw, 

Ere the blossom waved, or the green grass grew, 

O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 

Emily B. Page. 



|HEYran through the streets of the seaport town ; 
yy-% They peered from the decks of the ships that lay: 
jf The cold sea-fog that came whitening down 
jjL. Was never as cold or white as they. 

"Ho, Starbuckand Pinckney and Tenterden! 
Bun for your shallops, gather your men, 
Scatter your boats on the lower bay." 

Good cause for fear! In the thick midday 
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, 
Pilled with the children in happy play, 
Parted its moorings, and drifted clear, — 
Drifted clear beyond reach or call, — 
Thirteen children they were in all, — 
All adrift in the lower bay! 



Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all! 

She will not float till the turning tide!" 

Said his wife, "My darling will hear my call, 

Whether in sea or heaven she bide." 
And she lifted a quavering voice and high, 
Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, 
Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. 

The fog drove down on each laboring crew, 
Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : 
There was not a sound but the breath they drew, 
And the lap of water and creak of oar ; 

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown 
O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, 
But not from the lips that had gone before. 

They come no more. But they tell the tale, 

That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef, 

The mackerel fishers shorten sail ; 

For the signal they know will bring relief : 
For the voices of children, still at play 
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway 
Through channels whose waters never fail. 

It is but a foolish shipman's tale, 

A theme for a poet's idle page ; 

But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, 

And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, 

We hear from the misty troubled shore 

The voice of the children gone before, 

Drawing the soul to its anchorage. 

Bret Hakte. 



|ITHE and long as the serpent train, 

Springing and clinging from tree to tree, 
Now darting upward, now down again, 
With a twist and a twirl that are strange 

Never took serpent a deadlier hold, 
Never the cougar a wilder spring, 
Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, 
Spanning the beech with the condor's wing. 

Yet no foe that we fear to seek, — 

The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace; 

Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek 
As ever on lover's breast found place ; 

On thy waving train is a playful hold 

Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade; 
While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold, 
to And swings and sings in the noonday shade 1 

giant strange of our Southern woods ! 

I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, 
Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods,, 
And the Northern forest beholds thee not; 

1 think of thee still with a sweet regret, 

As the cordage yields to my playful grasp, — 
Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? 
Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp? 
William Gilmoke Simms. 


^OlEAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black 

ifH wall of the forest, 

/£S\ Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. 
jj On the river 

Fell here and there through the branches a 
tremulous gleam of the moonlight, 

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and 
devious spirit. 

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of 
the garden 

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their pray- 
ers and confessions 

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Car- 

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with 
shadows and night-dews, 

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the 
magical moonlight 

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 

As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of 

the oak-trees, 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measure- 
less prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite 

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the 

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel 

and worship, 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of 

that temple, 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, 

" Upharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the 

Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my 

beloved ! 



Art thou so near unto me, and yet I caunot behold When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded 

thee? about thee? " 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill 

reach me? sounded 

Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the 

prairie ! neighboring thickets, 

Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the wood- Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into 

lands around me ! silence. 

Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular cav- 

labor, erns of darkness; 

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 

thy slumbers. " To-morrow ! " 

Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. 


' O blithely shines the bonny sun 
Upon the Isle of May." 



BLITHELY shines the bonny sun 

Upon the Isle of May, 
And blithely comes the morning tide 

Into St. Andrew's Bay. 
Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair, 

And up, my braw bairns three; 
There's goud in yonder bonny boat 

That sails sae weel the sea ! 
When haddocks leave the Firth o' Forth, 

An' mussels leave the shore, 
When oysters climb up Berwick Law, 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No more, 
We '11 go to sea no more. 



I 've seen the waves as blue as air, 

I 've seen them green as grass ; 
But I never feared their heaving 3^et, 

From Grangemouth to the Bass. 
I 've seen the sea as black as pitch, 

I 've seen it white as snow ; 
But I never feared its foaming yet, 
Though the wiuds blew high or low. 
When squalls capsize our wooden walls, 

When the French ride at the Nore, 
When Leith meets Aberdour half way, 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No more, 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

I never liked the landsman's life, 

The earth is aye the same ; 
Gie me the ocean for my dower, 

My vessel for my hame. 
Gie me the fields that no man plows, 

The farm that pays no fee ; 
Gie me the bonny fish that glance 

So gladly through the sea. 

When sails hang flapping on the masts 
While through the waves we snore, 

When in a calm we 're tempest-tossed, 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No more, 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

The sun is up, and round Inchkeith 

The breezes softly blaw ; 
The gudeman has the lines on board, — 

Awa, my bairns, awa ! 
An' ye be back by gloamin' gray, 

An' bright the fire will low, 
An' in your tales and sangs we '11 tell 
How weel the boat ye row. 

When life's last sun gaes feebly down, 

An' death comes to our door, 
When a' the world 's a dream to us, 
We '11 go to sea no more, — 

No more, 
We '11 go to sea no more. 

Miss Coebett. 

SSlfND now, lashed on by destiny severe, 
ff*Y*S With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew 
?($X near ! 

il The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, 
Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar be- 
neath ! 

In vain the cords and axes are prepared, 
For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade, 
And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade. 
Uplifted on the surge to heaven she flies, 
Her shattered top half buried in the skies, 
Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground , 
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps re- 
sound ! 


Her giant hulk the dread concussion feels, 
And quivering with the wound, in torment reels. 
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes. 
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows. 
Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock 
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock ! 
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, 
The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes 
In wild despair, while yet another stroke, 
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak: 
Till, like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
The lurking demons of destruction dwell, 
At length, asunder torn, her frame divides, 
And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides. 

William Falconer. 


gOHN MAYNAKD was well known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest and 
intelligent pilot. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One sum- 
mer afternoon — at that time those steamers seldom carried boats — smoke was seen 
ascending from below, and the captain called out, "Simpson, go below and see 
what the matter is down there." Simpson came up with his face pale as ashes, and 
said, " Captain, the ship is on fire." Then "Fire! fire! fire!" resounded on shipboard. 
All hands were called up. Buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. 
There were large quantities of resin and tar on board, and it was found useless to 
attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, 


"How far are we from Buffalo?" "Seven miles." "How long before we can 
reach there?" "Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." " Is there 
any danger?" "Danger, here — see the smoke bursting out — go forward, if you would 
save your lives ! ' ' 

Passengers and crew — men, women and children — crowded the forward part of 
the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; 
clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet: "John Maynard ! " 
"Aye, aye, sir!" "Are you at the helm?" "Aye, aye, sir!" "How does she 
head? " " Southeast by east, sir." " Head her southeast and run her on shore," said 
the captain. 

Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out: 
"John Maynard!" The response came feebly this time, "Aye, aye, sir!" "Can 
you hold on five minutes longer, John?" he said. "By God's help, I will." 

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, one hand disabled, his knee upon 
the stanchion, and his teeth set ; with his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a 
rock. He beached the ship ; every man, woman and child was saved, as John Maynard 
dropped, and his spirit took its flight to its God. 

John B. Gough. 


FOUND a Rome of common clay," imperial And dumb Dismay walked hand in hand with frozen- 
Caesar cried; eyed Despair! 
I "I left a Rome of marble! " No other Borne Chicago vanished in a cloud — the towers were 
'* beside! storms of sleet, 
The ages wrote their autographs along the sculptured Lo ! ruins of a thousand years along the spectral 

stone— street! 

The golden eagles new abroad - Augustan splendors ^ mght bumed Qut between tbe days , The ashea 

shone — hoar-frost fell, 

They made a Roman of the world ! They trailed the Ag a gome demon get ajar tbe bolted gateg of heU> 

classic robe, And Jet tbe molten b m ows break the adamantine 

And Hung the Latin toga around the naked globe! b 

And roll the smoke of torment up to smother out the 

"I found Chicago wood and clay," a mightier Kaiser stars! 

sa i,j The low, dull growl of powder-blasts just dotted off 

Then flung upon the sleeping mart his royal robes of ^ e ^ m ' 

j-ed^ As if they tolled for perished clocks the time that 

And temple, dome, and colonnade, and monument might have been! 

and spire The thunder of the fiery surf roared human accents 

Put on the crimson livery of dreadful Kaiser Fire ! dumb ; 

The stately piles of polished stone were shattered into Tne trumpet's clangor died away a wild bee's drowsy 

sand, hum, 

And madly drove the dread simoon, and snowed them And breakers beat the empty world that rumbled like 

on the land ! a drum. 

And rained them till the sea was red, and scorched the O cities of the Silent Land ! O Graceland and Rose- 
wings of prayer! hill! 

Like thistle-down ten thousand homes went drifting No tombs without their tenantry? The pale host 

through the air, sleeping still? 



Your marble thresholds dawning red with holocaustal And Ruth and Rachel, pale and brave, in silence 

glare, walked beside; 

As if the Waking Angel's foot were set upon the stair ! Those Bible girls of Judah's day did make that day- 
sublime — 

But ah, the human multitudes that marched before Leaye life but ^ no other logs can everbank t 

the flame- Time , 

As 'mid the Red Sea's wavy walls the ancient people 

came j , Men stood and saw their all caught up in chariots of 

Behind, the rattling chariots ! the Pharaoh of Fire ! flame 

The rallying volley of the whips, the jarring of the No mantle falling from the sky they ever thought to 
tire! — claim, 

' Chicago vanished in a cloud." 

Looked round, and saw the homeless world as dismal And empty-handed as the dead, they turned away and 

as a pyre|— smiied, 

Looked up, and saw God's blessed Blue a firmament And bore a stranger's household gods and saved a 

so dire ! stranger's child ! 

As in the days of burning Troy, when Virgil's hero What valor brightened into shape, like statues in a 

fled, hall, 

So gray and trembling pilgrims found some younger When on their dusky panoply the blazing torches fall, 

feet instead, Stood bravely out, and saw the world spread wings of 
That bore them through the wilderness with bold fiery flight, 

elastic stride, And not a trinket of a star to crown disastered night! 

Benjamin F. Taylor. 




llpyKITOLD a scene, magnificent and new; 
jjNP Nor land nor water meet the excursive view; 
5JK The round horizon girds one frozen plain, 
& The mighty tombstone of the buried main, 
Where, dark and silent, and unfelt to flow, 
A dead sea sleeps with all its tribes below. 

Nor shines he here in solitude unknown ; 

North, south, and west, by dogs or reindeer drawn, 

Careering sledges cross the unbroken lawn, 

And bring from bays and forelands round the coast, 

Youth, beauty, valor, Greenland's proudest boast, 

Who thus, in winter's long and social reign, 

' North, south, and west, by dogs or reindeer drawn, 
Careering sledges cross the unbroken lawn." 

But heaven is still itself; the deep blue sky 
Comes down with smiles to meet the glancing eye, 
Though, if a keener sight its bound would trace, 
The arch recedes through everlasting space. 
The sun, in morning glory, mounts his throne, 

Hold feasts and tournaments upon the main, 
When, built of solid floods, his bridge extends 
A highway o'er the gulf to meeting friends, 
Whom rocks impassable, or winds and tide, 
Fickle and false, in summer months divide. 



The scene runs round with motion, rings With mirth, 

No happier spot upon the peopled earth; 

The drifted snow to dust the travelers beat, 

The uneven ice is flint beneath their feet. 

Here tents, a gay encampment, rise around, 

Where music, song, and revelry resound; 

There the blue smoke upwreathes a hundred spires. 

Where humbler groups have lit their pine-wood fires. 

Ere long they quit the tables ; knights and dames 
Lead the blithe multitude to boisterous games. 
Bears, wolves, and lynxes yonder head the chase; 
Here start the harnessed reindeer in the race, 
Borne without wheels, a flight of rival cars 
Track the ice-firmament, like shooting stars, 
Right to the goal, — converging as they run, 
They dwindle through the distance into one. 

James Montgomery. 



vY^OW ponder well, you parents deare, 

These wordes which I shall write; 
A doleful story you shall heare, 

In time brought forth to light. 
A gentleman of good account, 

In Norfolke dwelt of late, 
Who did in honor far surmount 

Most men of his estate. 

"You must be father and mother both, 

And uncle all in one ; 
God knowes what will become of them, 

When I am dead and gone." 
With that bespake their mother deare, 

" O brother kinde," quoth shee, 
"You are the man must bring our babes 

To wealth or miserie : 

Sore sicke he was, and like to dye, 

No helpe his life could save ; 
His wife by him as sicke did lye, 

And both possest one grave. 
No love between these two was lost, 

Each was to other kinde ; 
In love they lived, in love they dyed, 

And left two babes behinde : 

"And if you keep them carefully, 

Then God will you reward; 
But if you otherwise should deal, 

God will your deedes regard." 
With lippes as cold as any stone, 

They kist their children small : 
"God bless you both, my children deare; " 

With that the teares did fall. 

The one a fine and pretty boy, 

Not passing three yeares olde ; 
The other a girl more young than he, 

And framed in beautye's molde. 
The father left his little son, 

As plainlye doth appeare, 
When he to perfect age should come, 

Three hundred poundes a yeare. 

These speeches then their brother spake 

To this sicke couple there; 
"The keeping of your little ones, 

Sweet sister, do not feare. 
God never prosper me nor mine, 

Nor aught else that I have, 
If I do wrong your children deare, 

When you are layd in grave." 

And to his little daughter Jane 

Five hundred poundes in gold, 
To be paid downe on marriage-day, 

Which might not be controlled : 
But if the children chance to dye, 

Ere they to age should come, 
Their uncle should possesse their wealth; 

For so the wille did run. 

The parents being dead and gone, 

The children home he takes, 
And bringes them straite unto his house, 

Where much of them he makes. 
He had not kept these pretty babes 

A twelvemonth and a daye, 
But, for their wealth, he did devise 

To make them both awaye. 

"Now, brother," said the dying man, 

"Look to my children deare; 
Be good unto my boy and girl, 

No friendes else have they here: 
To God and you I recommeud 

My children deare this daye ; 
But little while be sure we have 

Within this world to staye. 

He bargained with two ruffians strong, 

Which were of furious mood, 
That they should take these children young, 

And slaye them in a wood. 
He told his wife an artful tale : 

He would the children send 
To be brought up in faire London, 

With one that was his friend. 



Away then went those pretty babes 

Rejoycing at that tide, 
Rejoycing with a merry minde, 

They should on cook-horse ride. 
They prate and prattle pleasantly, 

As they rode on the waye, 
To those that should their butchers be, 

And work their lives' decaye : 

So that the pretty speeche they had, 

Made Murder's heart relent: 
And they that undertooke the deed, 

Full sore did now repent. 
"Yet one of them more hard of heart, 

Did vowe to do his charge, 
Because the wretch that hired him 

Had paid him very large. 

The other won't agree thereto, 

So here the}' fall to strife ; 
With one another they did fight, 

About the children's life : 
And he that was of mildest mood 

Did slaye the other there, 
Within an unfrequented wood ; 

The babes did quake for f eare ! 

He took the children by the hand, 

Teares standing in their eye, 
And bad them straitwaye follow him, 

And look they did not crye : 
And two long miles he ledd them on, 

While they for food complaine : 
"Staye here," quoth he, "I'll bring you bread, 

When I come back againe." 

These pretty babes, with hand in hand, 

Went wandering up and downe; 
But never more could see the man 

Approaching from the towne : 
Their prettye lippes with blackberries 

Were all besmeared and dyed, 
And when they sawe the darksome night, 

They sat them downe and cryed. 

Thus wandered these poor innocents 

Till deathe did end their grief, 
In one another's armes they died. 

As wanting due relief : 
No burial this pretty pair 

Of any man receives, 
Till Robin-redbreast piously 

Did cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrathe of God 

Upon their uncle fell; 
Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, 

His conscience felt an hell; 
His barnes were fired, his goodes consumed, 

His landes were barren made, 
His cattle dyed within the field, 

And nothing with him stayd. 

And in the voyage of Portugal 

Two of his sonnes did dye; 
And to conclude, himselfe was brought 

To want and miserye : 
He pawned and mortgaged all his land 

Ere seven years came about, 
And now at length this wicked act 

Did by this means come out : 

The fellowe that did take in hand 

These children for to kill, 
Was for a robbery judged to dye, 

Such was God's blessed will : 
Who did confess the very truth, 

As here hath been displayed : 
Their uncle having dyed in gaol, 

Where he for debt was layd. 

You that executors be made, 

And overseers eke 
Of children that be fatherless, 

And infants mild and meek ; 
Take you example by this thing, 

And yield to each his right, 
Lest God with such like miserye 

Your wicked minds requite. 

-^sS— Ss 


[Chicago, 1812.] 

yf^ORN of the prairie and the wave — the blue sea I saw a dot upon the map, and a house-fly's filmy 
|lgp and the green, wing — 

<§f> A city of the Occident, Chicago lay between ; They said 't was Dearborn's picket-flag when Wilder- 
ness was king ; 
I heard the reed-bird's morniug song — -the Indian's 

awkward flail — 
The rice tattoo in his rude canoe like a dash of April 
hail — 

■%8?- Dim trails upon the meadow, faint wakes upon 
¥ the main, 

1 On either sea a schooner and a canvas-covered 



The beaded grasses' rustling bend — the swash of the The Dead March played for Dearborn's men just 
lazy tide, marching out of life, 

Where ships shake out the salted sails and navies The swooping of the savage cloud that burst upon 
grandly ride! the rank 

I heard the Block-house gates unbar, the column's And struck a ^^ its thunderbolt in forehead and in 

solemn tread, flank, 

I saw the Tree of a single leaf its splendid foliage The spatter of the musket-shot, the rifles' whistling 

shed rain — 

To wave awhile that August morn above the column's The sand-hills drift round hope forlorn that never 

head ; marched again ! 

I heard the moan of muffled drum, the woman's wail 

of fife, Benjamin F. Taylok. 


" Aloft as o'er a buoyant arch they go, 

Whose keystone breaks, as deep they plunge below." 


IpMHE floods are raging, and the gales blow high, 
gT*k Low as a dungeon-roof impends the sky; 

f Prisoners of hope, between the clouds and 
Sis fearless sailors man yon boat that braves 
Peril redoubling upon peril past : 
— From childhood nurslings of the wayward blast. 
Aloft as o'er a buoyant arch they go, 

Whose keystone breaks, — as deep they plunge 

below ; 
Unyielding, though the strength of man be vain ; 
Strua'2'lino- though borne like surf along the main; 
In front, a battlement of rocks ; in rear, 
Billow on billow bounding; near, more near, 
They verge to ruin; — life and death depend 
On the next impulse, — shrieks and prayers ascend. 
James Montgomery. 




SlYWO armies covered hill and plain, 
stAtd Where Rappahannock's waters 
j$k Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
4 Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure ; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its high embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to quiver ; 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now where circling hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender; 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal hand, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

Had just struck up with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks; 

Till, margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," 

And one was grey with "Rebels." 

Then all was still ; and then the band, 
With movement light and tricksy, 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
Reverberate with " Dixie." 

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 

Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 

With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause ; and then again 
The trumpet pealed sonorous, 

And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain 
To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 

To kiss the shining pebbles; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; 

All silent now the Yankees stood, 
All silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing, 
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue, or Grey, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 

The cold or warm, his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 

His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain, 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But Memory, waked by Music's art, 

Expressed in simple numbers, 
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 

Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines — 

That bright celestial creature — 
Who still 'mid War's embattled lines 

Gives this one touch of Nature. 

John R. Thompson. 


»f HD was the night, yet a wilder night 
illis2 Hung round the soldier's pillow ; 
7^\ In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight 
Jj Than the fight on the wrathful billow. 

A few fond mourners were kneeling by, 
The few that his stern heart cherished ; 

They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, 
That life had nearly perished. 

They knew by his awful and kingly look, 

By the order hastily spoken. 
That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, 

And the nations' hosts were broken. 

He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, 
And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle, 

And the struggling Austrian fled anew, 
Like the hare before the beagle. 



The bearded Russian he scourged again, 
The Prussian's camp was routed, 

And again on the hills of haughty Spain 
His mighty armies shouted. 

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, 
At the pyramids, at the mountain,' 

Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, 
And by the Italian fountain. 

On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams 
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, 

He led again, in his dying dreams, 
His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 

Again Marengo's field was Tvon, 

And Jena's bloody battle ; 
Again the world was overrun, 

Made pale at his cannon's rattle. 

He died at the close of that darksome day, 

A day that shall live in story; 
In the rocky land they placed his clay, 

"And left him alone with his glory." 

Isaac McClellan. 

-t-3-^S— &- 



a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring bil- The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle ! 

They heed not, they hear not, they're free from all 
They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their 
last battle ! 
No sound can awake them to glor}' again! 

Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests 
The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, 
Like fond weeping mourners lean over the grave. 
The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders 
rattle : 
He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all 
pain ; — 
He sleeps his last sleep — he has fought his last bat- 
No sound can awake him to glory again ! 

O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions 
That rushed but to conquer when thou led'st them 

Alas ! they have perished in far hilly regions, 
And all save the fame of their triumph is gone ! 

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, 

For, like thine own eagle that soared to the sun, 
Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind 
A name which before thee no mortal had won. 
Though nations may combat, and war's thunders 
No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the 
plain ; 
Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last 
battle ! 
No sound can awake thee to glory again! 

— ..<fc.^3~j>_.o.. 


|HE Plains! The shouting drivers at the wheel; 
The crash of leather whips ; the crush and roll 
Of wheels; the groan of yokes and grinding 

And iron chain, and lo! at last the whole 
Vast line, that reached as if to touch the goal, 
Began to stretch and stream away and wind 
Toward the west, as if with one control : 
Then hope loomed fair, and home \ay far behind ; 
Before, the boundless plain, and fiercest of their kind. 

Some hills at last began to lift and break; 
Some streams began to fail of wood and tide, 
The sombre plain began betime to take 
A hue of weary brown, and wild and wide 
It stretched its naked breast on every side. 

A babe was heard at last to cry for bread 
Amid the deserts; cattle lowed and died 
And dying men went by with broken tread, 
And left a long black serpent line of wreck and 

They rose by night ; they struggled on and on 
As thin and still as ghosts ; then here and there 
Beside the dusty way before the dawn 
Men silent laid them down in their despair, 
And died. But woman! Woman, frail as fair! 
May man have strength to give to you your due ; 
You faltered not, nor murmured anywhere, 
You held your babes, held to your course, and you 
Bore on through burning hell your double burthens 



The dust arose, a long dim line like smoke 
From out a riven earth. The wheels went by, 
The thousand feet in harness and in yoke, 
They tore the wa}'s of ashen alkali, 
And desert winds blew sudden, swift and dry. 
The dust ! it sat upon and filled the train ! 
It seemed to fret and All the very sky. 
Lo ! dust upon the beasts, the tent, the plain, 
And dust, alas ! on breasts that rose not up again. 


My brave and unremembered heroes, rest; 
You fell in silence, silent lie and sleep. 
Sleep on unsung, for this, I say, were best; 
The world to-day has hardly time to weep ; 
The world to-day will hardly care to keep 
In heart her plain and unpretending brave ; 
The desert winds, they whistle by and sweep 
About you ; browned and russet grasses wave 
Along a thousand leagues that lie one common grave. 

Joaquin Millek. 
-as — & 

"The mother— the lads, with their nest, at her knee." 

f^ftr^-' ^ as * we stood a t our mother's knee; 
Do you think, sir, if you try, 
You can paint the look of a lie? 
If you can, pray have the grace 
To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me : 

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed : 

But that's no matter — paint it so; 
The eyes of our mother — take good heed — 
Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 
But straight through our faces, down to our lies, 
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise! 


I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as 
A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know, 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 
Woods and cornfields, and mulberry tree, — 
The mother, — the lads, with their nest, at her knee ; 

But, oh, that look of reproachful woel 
High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
If you paint me the picture and leave that out. 

Alice Caby. 




the long and dreary winter! 
Oh the cold and cruel winter! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake and river; 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 
Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the. village. 
Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Vainly walked he through the forest, 
Sought for bird or beast and found none, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 
In the snow beheld no footprints, 
In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
Fell, and could not rise from weakness. 
Perished there from cold and hunger. 

Oh the famine and the fever! 
Oh the wasting of the famine ! 
Oh the blasting of the fever ! 
Oh the wailing of the children ! 
Oh the anguish of the women ! 
All the earth was sick and famished; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them! 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy; 
Waited not to be invited, 
Did not parley at the doorway, 
Sat there without word of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water; 
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 
At tbe face of Laughing Water. 
And the foremost said: " Behold me! 
I am Famine, Buckadawin! " 
And the other said " Behold me! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! " 
And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her, 
Shuddered at the words they uttered, 
La}' down on her bed in silence, 
Hid her face, but made no answer; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
At the looks the}' cast upon her, 
At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Bushed the maddened Hiawatha; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow, 

In his face a stony firmness, 

On his brow the sweat of anguish 

Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting 

With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 

With his quiver full of arrows, 

With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 

Into the vast and vacant forest 

On his snow-shoes strode he forwaru. 

" Gitche Manito, the mighty! " 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 
"Give your children food, O Father! 
Give us food, or we must perish! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha! " 
Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Bang that cry of desolation, 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying, 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 
" Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! " 

All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest, 
Through the shadow of whose thickets, 
In the pleasant days of summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten summer, 
He had brought his young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the loving Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! *' 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests that watched her, 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the beloved, 
She the dying Minnehaha. 
" Hark! " she said, " I hear a rushing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
" No, my child! " said old Nokomis. 
" JTis the night-wind in the pine-trees! " 
" Look! " she said, " I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs! " 
"No, my child! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons! " 



" Ah! " she said, "the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy ringers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness! 
Hiawatha! Hiawatha! " 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest, 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing; 
"Wahonowin! Wahonowin! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are! 
Wahonowin! Wahonowin! " 
And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him, 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha; 
In the snow a grave thej r made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, 
Covered her with snow, like ermine ; 
Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished, 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 

"Farewell! " said he, "Minnehaha; 
Farewell, O my Laughing Water! 
All my heart is buried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you I 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter! " 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



^tTTIIE maid, and thereby hangs a tale, 
ir-A-^ For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
e 7J|pC' Could ever yet produce : 

J^ No grape that 's kindly ripe could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she, 
Nor half so full of juice. 

Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
Like little mice, stole in and out. 

As if they feared the light; 
But O, she dances such a way! 
No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight. 

Her finger was so small, the ring 

Would not stay on which they did bring, — 

It was too wide a peck; 
And, to say truth, — for out it must, — 
It looked like the great collar — just- 
About our young colt's neck. 


Her cheeks so rare a white was on, 
No daisy makes comparison; 

Who sees them is undone; 
For streaks of red were mingled there, 
Such as are on a Katherine pear, 

The side that 's next the sun. 



Iler lips were red ; and one was thin, 
Compared to that was next her chin. 

Some bee had stung it newly ; 
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face 
I durst no more upon them gaze, 

Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 

That they might passage get; 
But she so handled still the matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better, 

And are not spent a whit. 

Sir John Suckling. 


|ONELY by Miami's stream, 
Gray in twilight's fading beam, 

Spectral, desolate and still; 
Smitten by the storm of years, 
Ah! how changed to me appears 

Yonder old deserted mill. 

"Glides the river past the mill, 
But the wheels are stark and still.' 

While my pensive eyes behold 
Mossy roof and gable old, 

Shadowy through obscuring trees, 
Memory's vision, quick and true, 
Time's long vista looking through, 

Bygone scenes more plainly sees. 

Sees upon the garner floor 
Wheat and corn in ample store, — 

Powdery whiteness everywhere ; 
Sees a miller, short and stout, 
Whistling cheerfully about, 

Making merry with his care. 

Pleased, he listens to the whirr 
Of the swift-revolving burr, 

Deeming brief each busy hour ; 
Like a stream of finest snow, 
Sifting to the bin below, 

Fall the tiny flakes of flour. 

Once, with childhood's vague intent, 
Down some furtive way I went, 

Through a broken floor to peer; 
Saw the fearful water drift 
In a current, dark and swift, 

Flying from the angry weir. 

Once, with timid steps and soft, 
Stealthily I climbed aloft; 

Up and up the. highest stair; 
Iron cogs were rumbling round, — 
Every vague and awful sound, 

Mocked and mumbled at me there. 

Wonder if those wheels remain, 
And would frighten me again? 

Wonder if the miller's dead? 
Wonder if his ghost at night 
Haunts the stairs, a phantom white? 

Walks the loft with hollow tread? 

Glides the river past the mill, 
But the wheels are stark and still, 

Worn and wasting, day by day; 
So the stream of years will run 
When my busy life is done, 

So my task-house shall decay. 

W. II. Venable. 

fflE beauty of the country surpasses all the grandeur of the city. In the city there 
are gardens cultivated with floral skill ; but they are not half so lovely even as the 
fields, whose swelling grain waves, and nods, and trembles to the whisking wind. 




«g|| MIGHTY hand from an exhaustless urn 

Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years 
'iff- Among the Nations. How the rushing waves 
jj. Bear all before them ! On their foremost edge, 
And there alone, is Life; the Present there 
Tosses and foams and Alls the air with roar 
Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, 
And they who strive, and they who feast, and they 
Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy hind — 
AVoodmau and delver with the spade — are there. 
And busy artisan beside his bench, 
And pallid student with his written roll. 
A moment on the mounting billow seen — 
The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. 
There groups of revelers, whose brows are twined 
With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, 
And as they raise their flowing cups to touch 
The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath 
The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 
Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth 
From cannon, where the advancing billow sends 
Up to the sight long flies of armed men, 
That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. 
The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, 
Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 
Down go the steed and rider; the plumed chief 
Sinks with his followers; the head that wears 
The imperial diadem goes down beside 
The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. 
A funeral train the torrent sweeps away, 
Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed 
Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, 
And women weep aloud; the floods roll on; 
The wail is stifled, and the sobbing group 
Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout — 
The cry of an applauding multitude 
Swayed by some loud-tongued orator who wields 
The living mass as if he were its soul! 
The waters choke the shout and all is still. 
Lo, next, a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads 
The hands in prayer! the engulfing wave o'ertakes 
And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields 
The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 
To beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed, 
A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch 
Gathers upon the canvas, and life glows; 
A poet, as he paces to and fro, 
Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride 
The advancing billow, till its tossing crest 
Strikes them and flings them under while their tasks 
Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile 
On her young babe that smiles to her again — 
The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieks, 
And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. 

A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray 
To glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand, 
Kise on the billowy swell and fondly look 
Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood 
Flings them apart; the youth goes down; the maid 
With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes. 
Waits for the next high wave to follow him. 
An aged man succeeds; his bending form 
Sinks slowly; mingling with the sullen stream 
Gleam the white locks and then are seen no more. 

Lo, wider grows the stream; a sea-like flood 
Saps earth's walled cities; massive palaces 
Crumble before it ; fortresses and towers 
Dissolve in the swift waters; populous realms 
Swept by the torrent, see their ancient tribes 
Engulfed and lost, their very languages 
Stifled and never to be uttered more. 

I pause and turn my eyes, and, lookiug back, 
Where that tumultuous flood has passed, I see 
The silent Ocean of the Past, a waste 
Of waters weltering over graves, its shores 
Strewn with the wreck of fleets, where mast and hull 
Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls 
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand 
Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipers. 
There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed 
The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturued, 
The broken altars of forgotten gods, 
Foundations of old cities and long streets 
Where never fall of human feet is heard 
Upon the desolate pavement. I behold 
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels far within 
The sleeping waters, diamonds, sardonyx, 
Euby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
That long ago were dust; and all around, 
Strewn on the waters of that silent sea, 
Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks 
■Shorn from fair brows by loving hands, and scrolls 
O'erwritten — haply with fond words of love 
And vows of friendship — and fair pages flung 
Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie 
A moment and then sink away from sight. 

I look and the quick tears are in my eyes, 
For I behold, in every one of these, 
A blighted hope, a separate history 
Of human sorrow, telling of dear ties 
Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness 
Dissolved in air, and happy days, too brief, 
That sorrowfully ended; and I think 
How painfully the poor heart must have beat 
In bosoms without number, as the blow 
Was struck that slew their hope or broke their peace. 



Sadly I turn, and look before, where yet 
The flood must pass, and I behold a mist 
Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, 
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers 
Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 
To shapes of grisly aspect, such as Fear 
Molds from the idle air; where serpents lift 
The head to strike, and skeletons stretch form 
The bony arm in menace. Further on 
A belt of darkness seems to bar the way, 
Long, low, and distant, where the Life that Is 
Touches the Life to Come. The Flood of Years 
Rolls toward it, near and nearer. It must pass 
That dismal barrier. What is there beyond? 
Hear what the wise and good have said. 

That belt of darkness still the years roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. 
They gather up again and softly bear 
All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed 
And lost to sight — all that in them was good, 
Noble and truly great and worthy of love — 

The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, 

Sages and saintly women who have made 

Their households happy — all are raised and borne 

By that great current in its onward sweep, 

Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 

Around green islands, fragrant with the breath 

Of flowers that never wither. So they pass, 

From stage to stage, along the shining course 

Of that fair river broadening like a sea. 

As its smooth eddies curl along their way, 

They bring old friends together ; hands are clasped 

In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms 

Again are folded round the child she loved 

And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, 

Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 

That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled 

Or broke are healed forever. In the room 

Of this grief-shadowed Present there shall be 

A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 

Tbe heart, and never shall a tender tie 

Be broken — ■ in whose reign the eternal Change 

That waits on growth and action shall proceed 

With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


hfjT lies beside the river, where its marge 

c*» Is black with man}' an old and oarless barge, 

Iff And yesty filth and leafage wild and rank 

4tf Stagnate and beaten by the crumbling bank. 

. iji ° 

Once, slow revolving by the industrious mill, 
It murmured, — only on the sabbath still ; 
And evening winds its pulse-like beating bore 
Down the soft vale and by the winding shore. 

Sparkling around its orbed motion, flew, 
With quick fresh fall, the drops of dashing dew; 
Through noontide heat that gentle rain was flung, 
And verdant, round, the summer herbage sprung. 

Now, dancing light and sounding motion cease, 
In these dark hours of cold continual peace ; 

-« — t -^VZ^~- 2/^-t 

Through its black bars the unbroken mooulight flows, 
And dry winds howl about its long repose! 

And mouldering lichens creep, and mosses gray 
Cling round its arms, in gradual decay, 
Amidst the hum of men, — which doth not suit 
That shadowy circle, motionless and mute! 

So, by the sleep of many a human heart 
The crowd of men may bear their busy part. 
"Where withered, or forgotten, or subdued, 
Its noisy passions have left solitude : — 

Ah! little can they trace the hidden truth. 
What waves have moved it in the vale of youth! 
And little can its broken chords avow 
How once they sounded. All is silent, now! 

John Ruskin. 


THINK about the dead by day, 
I dream of them at night : 

They seem to stand beside my chair, 
Jf. Clad in the clothes they used to wear, 
And by my bed in white. 

The common-places of their lives, 

The lightest words they said, 
Revive in me, and give me pain. 

And make me wish them back again, 
Or wish that I were dead. 

I would be kinder to them now, 

Were they alive once more ; 
Would kiss their cheeks and kiss their hair, 
And love them like the angels there, 

Upon the silent shore. 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 




fpp||UT list! a low and moaning sound 
§§B$ At distance heard, like a spirit's song, 
And now it reigns above, around, 
As if it called the ship along. 
The moon is sunk ; and a clouded gray 
Declares that her course is run, 
And like a god who brings the day, 
Up mounts the glorious sun. 

But gently now the small waves glide 
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. 
So stately her bearing, so proud her array. 
The main she will traverse forever and aye. 
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast; — 
Hush ! hush ! thou vain dreamer ! this horn- is her 

"And like a god who brings the day 
Up mounts the glorious sun." 

Soon as his light has warmed the seas, 

From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze ; 

And that is the spirit whose well-known song 

Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 

No fears hath she ; her giant form 

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, 

Majestically calm would go 

Mid the deep darkness white as snow ! 

Five hundred souls in one instant of dread 

Are hurried o'er the deck; 

And fast the miserable ship 

Becomes a lifeless wreck. 

Her keel hath struck on a bidden rock, 

Her planks are torn asunder, 

And down come her masts with a reeling shock, 

And a hideous crash like thunder. 



Her sails are draggled in the brine, 

That gladdened late the skies, 

And her pennant, that kissed the fair moonshine, 

Down many a fathom lies. 


" And her pennant, that kissed the fair moonshine, 
Down many a fathom lies." 

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues 
Gleamed softly from below, 

And flung a warm and sunny flush 
O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, 
To the coral rocks are hurrying down, 
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. 

O, many a dream was in the ship 

An hour before her death ; 

And sights of home with sighs disturbed 

The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 

Instead of the murmur of the sea, 

The sailor heard the humming tree 

Alive through all its leaves, 

The hum of the spreading sycamore 

That grows before his cottage-door, 

And the swallow's song in the eaves. 

His arms enclosed a blooming boy, 

Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy 

To the dangers his father had passed ; 

And his wife, — by turns she wept and smiled. 

As she looked on the father of her child, 

Returned to her heart at last. 

He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll, 

And the rush of waters is in his soul. 

Astounded, the reeling deck he paces, 

Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ; 

The whole ship's crew are there! 

Wailings around and overhead, 

Brave spirits stupefied or dead, 

And madness and despair. 

John Wilson (Christopher North). 


royal sport, 
"*^" And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on 
the court; 
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in 

their pride, 
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with 
one for whom he sighed : 
And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that crowning 

Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal 
beasts below. 

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing 

They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind 
went with their paws ; 

With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on 
one another; 

Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunder- 
ous smother; 

The bloody foam above the bars came whisking 
through the air; 

Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better 
here than there." 

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively 

With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which alway 

seemed the same; 
She thought, "The count, my lover, is brave as brave 

can be; 
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love 

of me; 
Kiug, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is 

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory will 

be mine." 

She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked 

at him and smiled ; 
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions 

wild : 
The leap was quick, return was. quick, he has regained 

his place, 
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the 

lady's face. 
"By Heaven!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he 

rose from where he sat : 
"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like 


Leigh Hunt. 




fHERE a bright creek into a river's side 
j^yiS Shoots its keen arrow, a green heron sits 
*fp Watching the sunfish as it gleaming flits 
J* From sheen to shade. He sees the turtle 
j glide 

Through the clear spaces of the rhythmic stream 
Like some weird fancy through a poet's dream ; 
He turns his goldeu eyes from side to side, 

In very gladness that he is not dead, 

While the. swift wind-stream ripples overhead 

And the creek's wavelets babble underneath. 
O bird ! that in a cheerful gloom dost live. 

Thou art, to me, a type of happy death; 
For when thou flyest away no mate will grieve 

Because a lone, strange spirit vanisheth! 

James Maukice Tuompson. 




I HE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
The ringers rang by two, by three; 

"Pull, if ye never pulled before; 
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 

"Play uppe, play uppe, O, Boston bells! 
Play all your changes, all your swells, 

Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — ■ 
The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was naught of strange beside 

The flight of mews and peewits pied 
By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 

I sat and spun within my doore, 
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore, 
Lay sinking in the barren skies, 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis wandereth, 

My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away, I heard her song. 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth, 
From the fields where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!"' calling, 
"For the dews will soone be falling; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come up Jetty, rise and follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago. 

When I begin to think how long, 

Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 
Swift as an arrowe, shaip and strong; 

And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 

Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 

That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be seene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the greene; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where there sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 

The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till floating o'er the grassy sea 

Came downe that kindly message free, 

The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 
And where the lordly steeple shows, 

They sayde, "And why should this thing be? 

What danger lowers by land or sea ? 

Thej r ring the tune of Enderby ! 

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne; 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring 'The brides of Enderby?' " 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 
Came riding down with might and main : 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! ' ' 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife Elizabeth.) 

"The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, 

The rising tide comes on apace, 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
"God save you mother!" strait he saith, 
"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" 

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, 
With her two bairns, I marked her long; 

And ere yon bells begaune to play 
Afar I heard her milking song. 

He looked across the grassy lea, 

To right, to left,'"Ho Enderby!" 

They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" 



"With that he cried and heat his breast ; 

For, lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, 

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine, 
Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet, 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sat that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping by; 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high - 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to mee, 

That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath 

" O come in life, or come in death! 

O lost! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou did'st, thou did'st, my daughter deare; 
The waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear, 

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 
To manye more than myne and me : 

But each will mourn his own (she saith), 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha! " calling 
Ere the early dews be falling; 
I shall never hear her song, 
"Cusha! Cusha! " all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy lonesome shore; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head; ' 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking-shed." 

Jean Ingelow. 


'. /^gATE carved in granite, with griffins at rest, 
! ^3(' Arches built grandly to welcome the guest, 
■^T"^ Elm-guarded avenue, dim as sea-caves, 
¥ Sweep of quaintbridges and rush of clear waves, 
J Group of acacias, dark cluster of pines, 
Mansion half-whelmed in a torrent of vines, 
Fountain a shower of fire, lake a soft gloom, 
Garden unrolling broad ribbons of bloom, 
Lawn smooth as satin and air cool as spray, — 
Roland and Christabel deep in croquet! 

Christabel — Roland, the flower of our clan, 
Noble and bountiful — match them who can. 
He fleet and supple, yet strong as young Saul; 
She in ten thousand the fairest of all; 
He quick to anger, but loving and leal ; 
She true and tender, though tempered like steel; 
Both of all weathers, fine dew and fierce hail, 
Ice on the mountain and flowers in the vale : 
All their still frostiness melted away, 
Just for that nonsense — a game of croquet! 



Only croquet? Never trust to the game, 
Kindling such raillery, feeding such flame-, 
Keeping such bird-bolts of laughter in flight, 
Tossing such roses of battle in sight ! 
Koland in triumph and ready to scoff, 
Christabel poising her mallet far-off, 
Ball speeding on with the wind in its wake, 
Smiting its rival and hitting the stake! 
Who is the victor! Proud Koland, at bay, 
Captures the hand that has won at croquet. 

Now is their magic enchainment complete ; 

Haughty, shy Christabel — far-away sweet, 

Caught in that wind from the Aidenn of souls, 

Blushes rose-bright as red snow of the poles ! 

Out of all lovers match these if you can ; — 

Spotless, great-hearted, the flower of our clan. 

If they should quarrel— half-right and half -wrong — 

Oaks root them deeper when breezes are strong. 

Now may Love lead them away and away, 

Through the wide Heavens, from that game of 


Amanda T. Jones. 



r , m CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry! 
And I '11 give thee a silver pound, 
To row us o'er the ferry." 

" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water? " 

"01 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 

"And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together, 

For should he findus in the glen, 
My blood would staiu the heather. 

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover? " 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I '11 go, my chief — I'm ready : 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady : 

"And by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water- wraith was shrieking ; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 

And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men, 

Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" O haste thee, haste! " the lady cries, 
"Though tempests round us gather; 

I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a storm}- land, 
- A stormy sea before her, — 
When, O ! too strong for human hand, 
The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And still they rowed amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing : 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover: 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

" Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 

"Across this stormy water: 
And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter! — O my daughter! " 

'T was vain ; the loud waves lashed the shore, 

Return or aid preventing : 
The waters wild went o'er his child, — 

And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell. 




I what's the matter? — what's the matter? 

What is't that ails yonng Harry Gill, 
That evermore his teeth they chatter — 

Chatter, chatter, chatter still? 
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 

Good duffel gray and flannel fine ; 
He has a "blanket on his hack, 

And coats enough to smother nine. 

In March, December, and in July, 

'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
At night, at morning, and at noon, 

'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still! 

Young Harry was a lusty drover — 

And who so stout of limb as he? 
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; 

His voice was like the voice of three. 
Old Goody Blake was old and poor; 

Dl-fed she was, and thinly clad ; 
And any man who passed her door 

Might see how poor a hut she had. 

All day she spun in her poor dwelling, 

And then her three hours' work at night — 
Alas ! 'twas hardly worth the telling — 

It would not pay for caudle-light. 
Remote from sheltering village green, 

On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, 

And hoary dews are slow to melt. 

By the same fire to boil their pottage, 

Two poor old dames, as I have known, 
Will often live in one small cottage ; 

But she — poor woman — housed alone. 
'Twas well enough when summer came, 

The long, warm, lightsome summer-day; 
Then at her door the canty dame 

Would sit, as any linnet gay. 

But when the ice our streams did fetter, 

Oh, then how her old bones would shake! 
You would have said, if you had met her, 

'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 
Her evenings then were dull and dead ; 

Sad case it was, as you may think, 
For very cold to go to bed, 

And then for cold not sleep a wink! 

Oh, joy for her! whene'er in winter 
The winds at night had made a rout, 

And scattered many a lusty splinter 
And many a rjotten bough about. 

Yet never had she, well or sick, 
As every man who knew her says, 

A pile beforehand, turf 6V stick, 
Enough to warm her for three days. 

Now, when the frost was past enduring, 

And made her poor old bones to ache, 
Could anything be more alluring 

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 
And now and then, it must be said, 

When her old bones were cold and chill, 
She left her fire, or left her bed, 

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 

Now, Harry he had long suspected 

This trespass of old Goody Blake, 
And vowed that she should be detected, 

And he on her would vengeance take. 
And oft from his warm fire he'd go, 

And to the fields his road would take; 
And there at night, in frost and snow, 

He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 

And once, behind a rick of barley, 

Thus looking out did Harry stand; 
The moon was full and shining clearly, 

And crisp with frost the stubble-land. 
He hears a noise! — he's all awake! — 

Again ! — on tiptoe down the hill 
He softly creeps. 'Tis Goody Blake! 

She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! 

Right glad was he when he beheld her! 

Stick after stick did Goody pull; 
He stood behind a bush of elder, 

Till she had filled her apron full. 
When with her load she turned about, 

The byway back again to take, 
He started forward with a shout, 

And sprang upon poor Goody Blake; 

And fiercely by the arm he took her, 

And by the arm he held her fast; 
And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 

And cried, " I've caught you, then, at last! " 
Then Goody, who had nothing said, 

Her bundle from her lap let fall; 
And, kueeling on the sticks, she prayed 

To God, who is the Judge of all. 

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 

While Harry held her by the arm — 
" God, who art never out of hearing, 

Oh, may he never more be warm! " 
The cold, cold moon above her head, 

Thus on her knees did Goody pray. 
Young Harry heard what she had said, 

And, icy cold, he turned away. 

He went complaining all the morrow 
That he was cold and very chill : 

His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow- 
Alas! that day for Harry Gill! 



That day he wore a riding-coat, 
But not a whit the warmer he ; 

Another was on Thursday hrought, 
And ere the Sabhath he had three. 

•'Twas all in vain — a useless matter — 
And blankets were about him pinned; 

Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
Like a loose casement in the wind. 

And Harry's flesh it fell away;, 
And all who see him say, " 'Tis plain 

That, live as long as live he may, 
He never will be warm again." 

No word to any man he utters, 

Abed or up, to young or old ; 
But ever to himself he mutters, 

" Poor Harry Gill is very cold ! " 
Abed or up, by night or day, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
Now, think, ye farmers all, I pray, 

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill ! 

William Wokdsworth. 

" From the fireside with many a shrug he hies, 
Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes." 


||N part these nightly terrors to dispel, 

Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell. 
From the fireside with many a shrug he hies, 
Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes, 
And through the unbroken stillness of the night 
Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. 
With sauntering steps he climbs the distant stile, 
Whilst all around him wears a placid smile; 
There views the white-robed clouds in clusters driven, 
And all the glorious pageantry of Heaven ; 
Low, on the utmost boundaiy of the sight, 
The rising vapors catch the silver light ; 

Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly. 
Which first will throw its shadow on the eye, 
Passing the source of light; and thence away, 
Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. 
Far yet above these wafted clouds are seen 
(In a remoter sky, still more serene) 
Others, detached in ranges through the air, 
Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair; 
Scattered immensely wide from east to west, 
The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest. 
These to the raptured eye, aloud proclaim 
Then' mighty Shepherd's everlasting Name. 

Robert Bloomfield. 




|IJlf5lVE years have passed ; five summers with the 

SI length 

'fp Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
i-l These waters rolling from their mountain- 
With a sweet inland murmur. Once again 
Do I hehold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 


Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms, 
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some hermit's cave, where hy his fire 
The hermit sits alone. 

William Wordsworth. 



|f\j YOT7XG Lochinvar has come out of the West! 
v\-S'> Through all the wild border his steed was the 
*fF best; 

J4 And save his good broadsword he weapons had 
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; 

But, ere he alighted at N~etherby gate, 

The bride had consented, — the gallant came late; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, — 
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — 
" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? " 

"I long wooed your daughter; — my suit you denied: 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure, — drink one cup of wine. 
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up ; 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup ; 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye; 
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, — 
"Now tread we a measure! " said young Lochinvar. 



So stately his form and so lovely her face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

And the bridemaidens whispered, " 'twere better by 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Loch- 


One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
When they reached the hall door, where the charger 

stood near; 
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ; — 

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and 

They '11 have fleet steeds that follow! " quoth young 


There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby 

Fosters, Feuwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war; 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 

Sir Walter Scott. 



|IS midnight's holy hour — and silence now 
lis Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er 

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the 

The bell's deep notes are swelling. 'Tis the 

Of the departed year. 

No funeral train 
Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood, 
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, 
Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred, 
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud, 
That floats so still and placidly through heaven, 
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand — 
Young spring, bright summer, autumn's solemn form, 
And winter with his aged locks — and breathe 
In mournful cadences, that course abroad 
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, 
Gone from the earth forever. 

'Tis a time 
For memory and for tears. Within the deep 
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, 
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
And solemn linger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have passed away 
And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of Life. That spectre lifts 
The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, 
And, bending mournfully above the" pale 
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers 
O'er what has passed to nothingness. 

The year 
Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, 

Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, 

It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, 

And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 

Upon the strong man, and the haughty form 

Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 

It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 

The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail 

Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song 

And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er 

The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield 

Flashed in the light of mid-day — and the strength 

Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 

Green from the soil of carnage, waves above 

The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came 

And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 

Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 

It heralded its millions to their home 

In the dim land of dreams. 

Remorseless Time: — 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power 
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
His iron heart to pity? On, still on 
He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
The fury of the northern hurricane 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, 
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain-crag — but Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, 
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind 
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep 
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast 
Of dreaming sorrow ; cities rise and sink, 
Like bubbles on the water ; liery isles 
Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back 
To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear 
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow 



Their tall heads to the plain ; new empires rise, 
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, 
Startling the nations ; and the very stars, 
Ton bright and burning blazonry of God, 
Glitter awhile in their eternal depths, 
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 

Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away, 
To darkle in the trackless void : yet Time, 
Time the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, 
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path. 
To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 
"Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 

George D. Prentice. 


jp^ITHIN the sober realms of leafless trees, 
wasa The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; 
Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, 
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued ; 

The hills seemed farther and the stream sang low, 
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 

His winter log with many a mulHed blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held its flight; 

The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint; 
And, like a star slow drowning in the light, 

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, — 
Crew thrice, — and all was stiller than before ; 

Silent, till some replying- warden blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, 

Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
By every light wind like a censer swung; — 

Where sang the noisy martens of the eaves, 
The busy swallows circling ever neat, — 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
An early harvest and a plenteous year; — 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 

To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, 
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy 
gloom ; 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 

The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by 
The thistledown, the only ghost of flowers, 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air, 
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch, — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron with monotonous tread 
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 

Sat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread. 

She had known Sorrow, — he had walked with her, 
Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust; 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 
Her country summoned, and she gave her all; 

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume — 
Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall : 

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew 
And struck for Liberty the d} r ing blow; 

Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed; 

. Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene ; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud. 

While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 
Thomas Buchanan Read. 




[This tribute appeared in the London "Punch," which, up to the time of the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, had ridiculed and 
maligned him with all its well-known powers of pen and pencil.] 

So lie went forth to battle, on the side 
That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, 

As in his peasant boyhood he had plied 
His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights ; 

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, 
The iron-bark, that turns the lumberer's ax, 

The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's toil, 
The prairie, hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, 

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear, — 
Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train : 

Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, 
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. 

So he grew up, a destined work to do, 
And lived to do it; four long-suffering years' 

111 fate, ill feeling, ill report, lived through, 
And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, 

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, 
And took both with the same unwavering mood; 

Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, 
And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,. 

A felon hand, between the goal and him, 
Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, 

And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, 
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to restt 

The words of mercy were upon his lips, 

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, 
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse 
■ To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men. 

The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, 
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame : 

Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high; 
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came ! 

A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck before 
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt 

If more of horror or disgrace they bore; 
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out* 

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, 
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven; 

And with the martyr's crown crownest a life 
With much to praise, little to be forgiven. 

Tom Taylor. 

2?OU lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, 
£g> You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, 
"^£J|f Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, 
■&• His length of shambling limb, his furrowed 
f face, 

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, 
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, 

His lack of all we prize as debonair, 
Of power or will to shine, of art to please ; 

Tou, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, 
Judging each step as though the way were plain, ■ 

Reckless, so it couid point its paragraph 
Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain : 

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet 
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew. 

Between the mourners at his head and feet, 
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you ? 

Yes : he had lived to shame me from my sneer, 
To lame my pencil, and confute my pen; 

To make me own this hind of princes peer, 
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men. 

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, 
Noting how to occasion's height he' rose; 

How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true ; 
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows. 

How humble, yet how hopeful, he. could be; 

How, in good fortune and in ill, the same; 
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, 

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 

He went about his work, — such work as few 
Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, 

As one who knows, where there 's a task to do, 
Man's honest will must heaven's good grace com- 

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, 
That God makes instruments to work his will, 

If but that will we can arrive to know, 
Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. 

K GOOD name is properly that reputation of virtue that every man may challenge 
Hit as his right and clue in the opinions of others, till he has made forfeit of it by 
the viciousness of his actions. 


-^S3~ &3=h 

" The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow." 


IROM Stirling Castle we had seen 
*■. 1= The mazy Forth unraveled; 
r j&C Had trod the hanks of Clyde and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had traveled ; 
And when we came to Cloveuford, 
Then said my '' winsome marrow," 
" Whatever betide, we'll turn aside, 
And see the hraes of Yarrow." 

" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 

Who have heen huying, selling, 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; 

Each maiden to her dwelling! 

On Yarrow's hanks let herons feed, 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! 

But we will downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 




" There's G-alla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 

The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 

There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land 

Made blithe with plough and harrow : 

Why throw away a needful day 

To s:o in search of Yarrow? 

" Let beeves and homebred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
The swan on still Sainc Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow! 
We will not see them ; will not go 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
Enough, if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 

" What's Yarrow but a river bare, 

That glides the dark hills under? 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 

As worthy of your wonder." 

Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; 

My true-love sighed for sorrow, 

And looked me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our own ; 
Ah ! why should we undo it? 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We'll keep them, winsome marrow! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

" O, green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms, 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open strath, 
We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the dale of Yarrow. 

" If care with freezing }^ears should come, 
And wandering seem but folly, — 
Should we be loath to stir from home, 
And yet be melancholy, — 
Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 
That earth has something yet to show, 
The bonny holms of Yarrow! " 

William Wokdsworth. 



!j||!JiSrD is this Yarrow !— this the stream 
Of which my fancy cherished 
So faithfully, a waking dream? 
An image that hath perished ! 
O that some minstrel's harp were near, 
To utter notes of gladness, 
And chase this silence from the air, 
That fills my heart with sadness. 

Yet why? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled meanderings; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted ; 

For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slighted. 

Where was it that the famous flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding: 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 

The water-wraith ascended thrice, 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the lay that sings 

The haunts of happy lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove, 

The leafy grove that covers : 

And pity sanctifies the verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow, 

The unconquerable strength of love ; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest charms decayed, 

And pastoral melancholy. 



That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty groves, 

Behold a ruin hoary ! 

The shattered front of Newark's towers, 

Renowned in border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in; 

For manhood to enjoy his strength; 

And age to wear away in ! 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

It promises protection 

To studious ease, and generous cares, 

And every chaste affection ! 

How sweet on this autumnal day, 
The wild wood's fruits to gather, 
And on my true-love's forehead plant 
A crest of blooming heather ! 

And what if I enwreathed my own! 
'Twere no offence to reason; 
The sober hills thus deck their brows 
To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone, 

loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 

A ray of fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 

Thy ever youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapors linger round the heights, 
They melt; — and soon must vanish; 
One hour is theirs, no more is mine — 
Sad thought! which I would banish. 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image, Yarrow! 
"Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 

William Wordsworth. 


|HY banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream, 
When first on thee I met my lover ; 
ff^ Thy banks how dreary, Yarrow stream, 
When now thy waves his body cover ! 

His mother from the window looked, 
With all the longing of a mother; 
His little sister, weeping, walked 
The greenwood path to meet her brother. 

For ever now, O Yarrow stream, 
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
For never on thy banks shall I 
Behold my love — the flower of Yarrow ! 

They sought him east, they sought him west, 
They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
They only saw the clouds of night — 
They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 

He promised me a milk-white horse, 
To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
He promised me a little page, 
To squire me to his father's towers. 

No longer from thy window look — 
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid — 
Alas ! thou hast no more a brother! 

He promised me a wedding-ring, 
The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow : 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 
Alas! a watery grave in Yarrow! 

No longer seek him east or west, 
No longer search the forest thorough, 
For, murdered in the night so dark, 
He lies a lifeless corpse in Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met, 
My passion I as freely told him ; 
Clasped in his arms, I little thought 
That I should never more behold him. 

The tears shall never leave my cheek, 
No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
I'll seek thy body in the stream, 
And there with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow! 

Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost — 
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water- wraith ascend, 
And give a doleful groan through Yarrow! 

The tear did never leave her cheek, 
No other youth became her marrow; 
She found his body in the stream, 
And with him now she sleeps in Yarrow. 

John Logan. 




1 thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 
Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 
For the gay beams of lightsome day 
Gild, but to flout, the ruius gray. 
When the broken arches are black in night, 
And each shafted oriel glimmers white : 
When the cold light's uncertain shower 
Streams on the ruined central tower; 
When buttress and buttress, alternately, 


Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 

When silver edges the imagery, 

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 

When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, 

Then go — but go alone the while — 

Then view St. David's ruined pile ; 

And, home returning, soothly swear, 

Was never scene so sad and fair ! 

Sik Walter Scott. 


jppAIE Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 

§HH Immortal though no more; though fallen, great ! 
AVho now shall lead thy fallen children forth, 
And long accustomed bondage uncreate? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 

The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 

In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait, — 

O, who that gallant spirit shall resume, 

Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from the 


Lord Byron. 



MT;0 stir in the air, no stir in the sea, - 
The ship was as still as she could be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion ; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inehcape rock; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inehcape bell. 

The Holy Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inehcape rock; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the surges' swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous rock, 
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay, — 

All things were joyful on that day; 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around, 

And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inehcape bell was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph, the rover, walked his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, — 
It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
His heart was mirthful to excess; 
But the rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the bell and float : 
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat; 
And row me to the Inehcape rock, 
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok." 



The boat is lowered, the boatmen row. 
And to the Incheape roek they go ; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 
And cut the warning bell from the float. 

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound; 

The bubbles rose, and burst around. 

Quoth Sir Ealph, " The next who comes to the 

Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph, the rover, sailed away, — 
He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
And now, grown rich with plundered store, 
He steers his course to Scotland's shore. 

Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

" Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar? 
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore. 
Now where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish we could hear the Incheape bell." 

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along; 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — 
O Christ! it is the Incheape rock! 

Sir Ralph, the rover, tore his hair; 
He cursed himself in his despair. 

" Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Incheape rock." 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 
They cannot see the sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day; 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the rover takes his stand; 
So dark it is they see no land. 

The waves rush in on every side; 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But ever in his dying fear 
One dreadful sound he seemed to hear, — 
A sound as if with the Incheape bell 
The Devil below was ringing his knell. 

Robert Southet. 

-NS- Sss^- 


|HE Wind King from the North came down, 
- yjr^ Nor stopped by river, mount or town ; 
"$*• But, like a boisterous god at play, 
H Resistless, bounding on his way, 

He shook the lake and tore the wood, 

And flapped his wings in merry mood, 
Nor furled them, till he spied afar 
The white caps flash on Hatteras bar, 
Where fierce Atlantic landward bowls 
O'er treacherous sands and hidden shoals. 



He paused, then wreathed his horn of cloud, 

And "blew defiance long and loud : 

" Come up ! come up, thou torrid god, 

That rul'st the Southern sea! 
Ho ! lightning-eyed and thunder-shod, 

Come wrestle here with me ! 
As tossest thou the tangled cane, 
I '11 hurl thee o'er the hoiling main: 

He drew his lurid legions forth, 

And sprang to meet the white-plumed North. 

Can mortal tongue in song convey 
The fury of that fearful fray? 
How ships were splintered at a blow, 
Sails shivered into shreds of snow, 
And seamen hurled to death below! 

" That lone hulk stands 

Embedded in thy yellow sands. 5 

"Come up! come up, thou torrid god, 
Thou lightning-eyed and thunder-shod, 

And wrestle here with me! " 
'T was heard and answered : "Lo! I come 

From azure Carribee, 
To drive thee cowering to thy home, 
And melt its walls of frozen foam." 
From every isle and mountain dell, 
From plains of pathless chaparral, 
From tide-built bars, where sea-birds dwell, 

Two gods commingling, bolt and blast, 
The huge waves on each other cast, 
And bellowed o'er the raging waste; 
Then sped, like harnessed steeds, afar, 
That drag a shattered battle-car 
Amid the midnight din of war! 

False Hatteras! when the cyclone came, 
Thy waves leapt up with hoarse acclaim 
And ran and wrecked yon argosy! 



Fore'er nine sank ! that lone hulk stands 
Embedded in thy yellow sands, — 
An hundred hearts in death there stilled, 
And yet its ribs, with corpses filled, 

Are now caressed by thee ! 

You lipless skull shall speak for me, 
"This is the Golgotha of the sea! 
And its keen hunger is the same 
In winter's frost or summer's flame ! 
When life was young, adventure sweet, 
I came with Walter Raleigh's fleet, 
But here my scattered bones have lain 
And bleached for ages by the main ! 

Though lonely once, strange folk have come, 
Till peopled is my barren home. 
Enough are here. Oh, heed the cry, 
Ye white-winged strangers sailing by! 
The bark that lingers on this wave 
Will rind its smiling but a grave ! 
Then, tardy mariner, turn and flee, 
A myriad wrecks are on thy lee ! 
With swelling sail and sloping mast, 
Accept kind Heaven's propitious blast! 
O ship, sail on ! O ship, sail fast, 
Till, Golgotha's quicksands being past, 
Thou gain'st the open sea at last! " 



IBKOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
<-A *s As his corse to the rampart we hurried: 
X W-' Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

j| We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as wo hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
And we far away on the billow. 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone. 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 

Charles Wolfe. 


jj±> what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
. How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; 

'f^ A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
J"l No dangers fright him, and no labors tire; 

O'er love, o'er fear, exteuds his wide domain, 

Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain; 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; 

Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, 

And one capitulate, and one resign; 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; 

"Think nothing gained," he cries, "till naught re- 

On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 

The march begins in military state, 

And nations on his eye suspended wait; 

Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 

And Winter barricades the realms of Frost; 

He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay; — 

Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day : 

The vanquished hero leaves his broken bauds, 

And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 

Condemned a needy supplicant to wait, 

While ladies interpose and slaves debate, 

But did not Chance at length her error mend? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end? 

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, 

Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 

His fall was destined to a barren strand, 

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; 

He left the name at which the world grew pale, 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

Samuel Johnson. 




Njf AREWELL, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes ! 
1*1! Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods, 
"^i Haunted by paths like those that Poussin 
I knew, 

1 When after his all gazers' eyes he drew : 
I go — and if I never more may steep 
An eager heart in your enchantments deep, 

A tender blessing lingers o'er the scene, 
Like some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene, 
And through its life new-born our lives have been. 
Once more, farewell — a sad, a sweet farewell; 
And if I never must behold you more, 
In other worlds I will not cease to tell 
The rosary I here have numbered o'er; 

Yet ever to itself that heart may say, 

Be not exacting— thou hast lived one day — 

Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood, 

Impassioned sweetness of full being's flood, 

■Where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave, 

Where naught repelled the lavish love that gave. 

And bright-haired Hope will lend a gladdened ear, 
And Love will free him from the grasp of Fear, 
And Gorgon critics, while the tale they hear, 
Shall dew their stony glances with a tear, 
If I but catch one echo from your spell: 
And so farewell — a grateful, sad farewell! 

Margaret Fuller. 




|HERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? 
JUS* Where may the grave of that good man be? — 
*f§||pf By the side of a spring, on the breast of Hel- 
"T vellyn, 

Under the twigs of a young birch-tree ! 
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 

And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, 
And whistled and roared in the winter alone, 
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. 
The knight's bones are dust, 
And his good sword rust; — 
His soul is with the saints, I trust. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


$E was a man whom danger could not daunt, 
i Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain subdue, 
A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt, 
And steeled the path of honor to pursue; 
So, when by all deserted, still he knew 
How best to soothe the heart-sick, or confront 
Sedition, schooled with equal eye to view 
The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want. 

But when he saw that promised land arise 

In all its rare and bright varieties, 

Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod; 

Then softening nature melted in his eyes; 

He knew his fame was full, and blessed his God; 

And fell upon his face, and kissed the virgin sod ! 

Sir Aubrey De Vere. 




T ,T5Y boat is on the shore, 
SyAS And my hark is on the sea; 
~ -^ ^ But before I go, Tom Moore, 
t Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for any fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me, 
Yet it still shall hear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasped upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 

"With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pom- 
Should be — peace to thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

Lord Byron. 


HjICTOR in poesy ! Victor in romance ! 
P,, Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears! 
|1| French of the French, aud lord of human tears ! 
Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance, 
Darkening the wreaths of all that would ad- 
Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers ! 
Weird Titan, by thy wintry weight of years 

As yet unbroken ! Stormy voice of France, 
Who does not love our England, so they say; 
I know not! England, France, all men to be, 
Will make one people, ere man's race be run; 
And I, desiring that diviner day, 
Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy 
To younger England, in the boy, my son. 

Alfred Tennysoin. 



LIGHT is out in Italy, 

A golden tongue of purest flame ; 

We watched it burning, long and lone, 

And every watcher knew its name, 

And knew from whence its fervor came : 

That one rare light of Italy, 
Which put self-seeking souls to shame! 

This light which burnt for Italy, 
Through all the blackness of her night, 

She doubted once upon a time, 
Because it took away her sight; 

She looked and said, "There is no light! " 
It was thine eyes, poor Itaty? 

That knew not dark apart from bright. 

This flame which burnt for Italy, 
It would not let her haters sleep ; 

They blew at it with angry breath, 
And only fed its upward leap, 

And only made it hot and deep ; 
Its burning showed us Italy, 

And all the hopes she had to keep. 

This light is out in Italy, 
Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! 

For her sweet sake it spent itself, 
Too early flickering to its wane — 

Too long blown over by her pain. 
Bow down and weep, O Italy, 

Thou canst not kindle it again ! 

Laura C. Redden (Howard Glyndon). 


, J|E touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced. 
«A*| As some vast river of unfailing source, 
*$K Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, 


And oped new fountains in the human heart. 
Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight, 
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose, 
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at 
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great, 
Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles ; 

He from above descending stooped to touch 

The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though 

It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self 

He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 

At will with all her glorious majesty. 

He laid his hand upon " the ocean's mane," 

And played familiar with his hoary locks ; 

Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, 

And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend; 

And wove his garland of the lightning's wing, 



la sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing, 
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, 
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed ; 
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 
His evening song "beneath his feet, conversed. 
Suns, moons, and stars and clouds, his sisters were ; 
Eocks, mountains, meteors, seas and winds and storms 
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce 
As equals deemed. All passions of all men, 
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe ; 
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane; 

All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity ; 
All that was hated, and all that was dear; 
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man; 
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves, 
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. 
With terror now he froze the cowering blood, 
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness ; 
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself; 
But back into his soul retired, alone, 
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously 
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 

Robert Pollok. 


jT\; MASTER! here I bow before a shrine; 
Before the lordliest dust that ever yet 
Moved animate in human form divine. 
Lo ! dust indeed to dust. The mould is set 
Above thee, and the ancient walls are wet, 
And drip all day in dank and silent gloom, 
As if the cold gray stones could not forget 
Thy great estate shrunk to this sombre room, 
But learn to weep perpetual tears above thy tomb. 

Through broken panes I hear the schoolboy's shout, 

I see the black-winged engines sweep and pass, 

And from the peopled narrow plot without, 

Well grown with brier, moss, and heaving grass, 

I see the Abbey loom an ivied mass, 

Made eloquent of faiths, of fates to be, 

Of creeds, and perished kings ; and still, alas, 

soldier-childe ! most eloquent of thee, 
Of thy sad life, and all the unsealed mystery. 

1 look into the dread, forbidding tomb ; 

Lo ! darkness — death. The soul on shifting sand 

That belts eternity gropes in the gloom 

The black-winged bird goes forth in search of land, 

But turns no more to reach my reaching hand 

O, land beyond the land ! I lean me o'er 

Thy dust in prayer devout 1 rise, I stand 

Erect ; the stormy seas are thine no more ; 
A weary white-winged dove has touched the olive 

A bay-wreath woven by the sun-down west 
Hangs damp and stained upon the dank gray wall, 
Above thy time-soiled tomb and tattered crest ; 
A bay-wreath gathered by the seas that call 
To orient Cathay, that break and fall 

On shell-lined shores, before Tahiti's breeze 

A slab, a crest, a wreath, and these are all 
Neglected, tattered, torn ; yet only these 
The world bestows for song that rivaled singing seas. 

A bay- wreath wound by one more truly brave 
Than Shastan; fair as thy eternal fame, 
She sat and wove above the sunset wave, 
And wound and sang thy measures and thy name. 
'T was wound by one, yet sent with one acclaim 
By many, fair and warm as flowing wine, 
And purely true, and tall as glowing flame, 
That list and lean in moonlight's yellow shine 
To tropic tales of love in other tongues than thine. 

I bring this idle reflex of thy task, 
And my few loves, to thy forgotten tomb : 
I leave them here ; and here all pardon ask 
Of thee, and patience ask of singers whom 
Thy majesty has silenced. I resume 
My staff, and now my face is to the West; 
My feet are worn; the sun is gone, a gloom 
Hag mantled Hucknall, and the minstrel's zest 
For fame is broken here, and here he pleads for rest. 

Joaquin Miller. 



■.jsHTS figure that thou here seest put, 
jJP|j It was for gentle Shakespeare cut, 
Wherein the graver had a strife 
With nature, to outdo the life : 
O could he but have drawn his wit, 

As well in brass, as he hath hit 
His face ; the print would then surpass 
All that was ever writ in brass : 
But since he cannot, reader, look, 
Not on his picture, but his book. 

Ben Jonson. 




[In memory of Daniel Webster.] 

n|||OME die too late, and some too soon, 
fjj§H At early morning, heat of noon, 

fOr the chill evening twilight. Thou, 
Whom the rich heavens did so endow 
With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, 
With all the massive strength that fills 
Thy home-horizon's granite hills, 
With rarest gifts of heart and head 
From manliest stock inherited 
New England's stateliest type of man. 
In port and speech Olympian ; 
Whom no one met, at first, but took 
A second awed and wondering look 
(As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece, 
On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece) ; 
Whose words in simplest home-spun clad, 
The Saxon streagth of Casdmon's had, 
With power reserved at need to reach 
The Roman forum's loftiest speech, 
Sweet with persuasion, eloquent 
In passion, cool in argument, 
Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes 
As fell the Norse god's hammer blows, 
Crushing as if with Talus' flail 
Through error's logic-woveu mail, 
And failing only when they tried 
The adamant of the righteous side, — ■ 
Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved 
Of old friends, by the new deceived, 
Too soon for us, too soon for thee, 
Beside thy lonely Northern sea, 
Where long and low the marsh-lands spread, 
Laid wearily down thy august head. 

Thou shouldst have lived to feel below 

Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow, — 

The late-sprung mine that underlaid 

Thy sad concessions vainly made. 

Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall 

The star-flag of the Union fall, 

And armed Rebellion pressing on 

The broken lines of Washington ! 

No stronger voice than thine had then 

Called out the utmost might of men, 

To make the Union's charter free 

And strengthen law by liberty. 

How had that stern arbitrament 

To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, 

Shaming ambition's paltry prize 

Before thy disillusioned eyes ; 

Breaking the spell about thee wound 

Like the green withes that Samson bound; 

Redeeming, in one effort grand, 

Thyself and thy imperilled land ! 

Ah, cruel fate, that closed to thee, 

O sleeper by the Northern sea, 

The gates of opportunity ! 

God fills the gaps of human need, 

Each crisis brings its word and deed. 

Wise men and strong we did not lack; 
But still, with memory turning back, 
In the dark hours we thought of thee, 
And thy lone grave beside the sea. 

Above that grave the east winds blow, 

And from the marsh-lands drifting slow 

The sea-fog comes, with evermore 

The wave-wash of a lonely shore, 

And sea-birds melancholy cry, 

As Nature fain would typify 

The sadness of a closing scene, 

The loss of that which should have been. 

But, where thy native mountains bare 

Their foreheads to diviner air, 

Fit emblem of diviner fame, 

One lofty summit keeps thy name. 

For thee the cosmic forces did 

The rearing of that pyramid ; 

The prescient ages shaping with 

Fire, flood, and frost, thy monolith. 

Sunrise and sunset lay thereon 

With hands of light their benison ; 

The stars of midnight pause to set 

Their jewels in its coronet. 

And evermore that mountain mass 

Seems climbing from the shadowy pass 

To light, as if to manifest 

Thy nobler self, thy life at best! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



IjjllHERE in seclusion and remote from men 
sjiyl The wizard hand lies cold, 
'"*f* Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, 
And left the tale half told. 

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clew regain? 
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 

Unfinished must remain ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 




(DIED MARCH 24, 1SS2.) 

O ye dead Poets, who are living still 
Immortal ia your verse. — Longfellow. 

|l *T?E mourn for those whose laurels fade, 
pUSi* Whose greatness in the grave is laid ; 
jn|fjk" Whose memory few will care to keep, 
[J Whose names, forgotten, soon shall sleep ; 
We mourn Life's vainness, as we bow 
O'er folded hands and icy brow. 

Wan is the grief of those whose faith 
Is bounded by the shores of Death ; 
From out whose mists of doubt and gloom 
No rainbow arches o'er the tomb 
Where Love's last tribute of a tear 
Lies with dead flowers upon the bier. 

O thou revered, beloved ! — not yet, 
With sob of bells, with eyes tear-\vet, 
With faltering pulses, do we lay 
Thy greatness in the grave away ; 
Not Auburn's consecrated ground 
Can hold the life that wraps thee round. 

Still shall thy gentle presence prove 
Its ministry of hope and love ; 
Thy tender tones be heard within 
The story of Evangeline ; 

And by the Fireside, midst the rest, 
Thou oft shalt be a welcome guest. 

Again the Mystery will be clear ; 
The august Tuscan's shades appear; 
Moved by thy impulse, we shall feel 
New longings for thy high ideal; 
And under all thy forms of art 
Feel beatings of a human heart. 

As in our dreams we follow thee 
With longing eyes Beyond the Sea, 
We see thee on some loftier height 
Across whose trembling bridge of light 
Our Voices of the Night are borne, 
Clasp with white hand the stars of Morn. 

O happy Poet ! Thine is not 

A portion in the common lot; 

Thy works shall follow thee ; thy verse 

Shall still thy living thoughts rehearse ; 

The Ages shall to thee belong — 

An immortality of Song. 

Francis F. Browhe. 

-3*3Qs% °§^- 


JElfARTH, let thy softest mantle rest 

On this worn child to thee returning, 
Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast, 

Who loved thee with such tender yearning. 
He knew thy fields and woodland ways, 

And deemed thy humblest son his brother; — 
Asleep, beyond our blame or praise, 

We yield him back, O gentle Mother! 

Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill; 

Who has not read the life-long story? 
And dear we hold his fame, but still 

The man was dearer than his glory. 
And now to us are left alone 

The closet where his shadow lingers, 
The vacant chair — that was a throne, — 

The pen just fallen from his fingers. 

Wrath changed to kindness on that pen, 
Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey; 

One flash from out the cloud, and then 
The skies with smile and jest were sunny. 

Of hate he surely lacked the art, 

Who made his enemy his lover : 
O reverend head, and Christian heart ! 

Where now their like the round world over? 

He saw the goodness, not the taint, 

In many a poor, do-nothing creature, 
And gave to sinner and to saint, 

But kept his faith in human nature ; 
Perchance he was not worldly-wise, 

Yet we who noted, standing nearer, 
The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes, 

For every weakness held him dearer 

Alas, that unto him who gave 

So much so little should be given! 
Himself alone he might not save, 

Of all for whom his hands had striven. 
Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed ; 

Men took, and passed, and left him lonely; 
What marvel if, beneath his load, 

At times he craved — for justice only. 



Yet thanklessness, the serpent's tooth, 

His lofty purpose could not alter; 
Toil had no power to hend his youth, 

Or make his lusty manhood falter ; 
From envy's sling, from slander's dart, 

That armored soul the body shielded, 
Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart, 

And then he bowed his head and yielded. 

Now, now, we measure at its worth 

The gracious presence gone forever! 
The wrinkled East, that gave him birth, 

Laments with every laboring river; 
Wild moan the free winds of the West 

For him who gathered to her prairies 
The sons of men, and made each crest 

The haunt of happy household fairies ; 

And anguish sits upon the mouth 
Of her who came to know him latest : 

His heart was ever thine, O South ! 
He was thy truest friend, and greatest! 

He shunned thee in thy splendid shame, 
He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow; 

The day thou shalt forget his name, 
Fair South, can have no sadder morrow. 

The tears that fall from eyes unused, 

The hands above his grave united, 
The words of men whose lips he loosed, 

Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted, — 
Could he but know, and rest with this! 

Yet stay, through Death's low-lying hollow, 
His one last foe's insatiate hiss 

On that benignant shade would follow ! 

Peace ! while we shroud this man of men, 

Let no unhallowed word be spoken! 
He will not answer thee again, 

His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken. 
Some holier cause, some vaster trust 

Beyond the veil, he doth inherit : 
O gently, Earth, receive his dust, 

And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit! 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 


'■ jHCREEN be the turf above thee, 
i >3I Friend of my better days ! 
*W< None knew thee but to love thee, 
J4 Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 
From eyes unused to weep, 

And long, where thou art lying, 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine, 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine, — 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow ; 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free ; 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 




iOSE his eyes ; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon or set of sun, 
Hand of man or kiss of woman? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 
Proved his truth by his endeavor; 

Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he canuot know; 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars, 

Roll the drum and fire the volley! 
What to him are all our wars? — 
What but death bemocking folly? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low ! 



Leave him to God's watching eye : 
Trust him to the hand that made him. 

Mortal love weeps idly by ; 
God alone has power to aid him. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low ! 

George Henry Boker. 


\JB mortuis nil nisi bonum." When 
For me the end has come, and I am dead, 
And little voluble chattering daws of men 

Peck at me curiously, let it then be said 
By some one brave enough to speak the truth : 

Here lies a great soul killed by cruel wrong. 
Down all the balmy days of his fresh youth, 

To his bleak, desolate noon, with sword and song, 
And speech that rushed up hotly from the heart, 

He wrought for Liberty, till his own wound 
(He had been stabbed) , concealed with painful art 

Through wasting years, mastered him, and he 
And sank there where you see him lying now, 
With that word "Failure" written on his brow. 

But say that he succeeded. If he missed 
World's honors, and world's plaudits and the 

Of the world's deft lacqueys, still his lips were kissed 
Daily by those high angels who assuage 

The thirstings of the poets — for he was 
Born unto singing, and a burthen lay 

Mightily on him, and he moaned because 

He could not rightly utter in the day 
What God taught in the night. Sometimes, nathless, 

Power fell upon him, and bright tongues of flame, 
And blessings reached him from poor souls in stress, 

And benedictions from black pits of shame, 
And little children's love, and old men's prayers, 
And a Great Hand that led him unawares. 

So he died rich. And if his eyes were blurred 

With thick films— silence ! he is in his grave. 
Greatly he suffered; greatly, too, he erred; 

Yet broke his heart in trying to be brave. 
.Nor did he wait till Freedom had become 

The popular shibboleth of the courtier's lips, 
But smote for her when God Himself seemed dumb 

And all his arching skies were in eclipse. 
He was a-weary, but he fought his fight, 

And stood for simple manhood ; and was joyed 
To see the august broadening of the light, 

And new earths heaving heavenward from the void 
He loved his fellows, and their love was sweet — 
Plant daisies at his head and at his feet. 




< ':Q^XOW-BOUXD for earth, but summer-souled for 


Thy natal morning shines : 
Hail, friend and poet. Give thy hand to me, 
And let me read its lines ! 

For skilled in fancy's palmistry am I, 

When years have set their crown ; 

When life gives light to read its secrets by, 
And deed explains renown. 

So, looking backward from thy seventieth year 

On service grand and free, 
The pictures of thy spirit's past are clear, 

And each interprets thee. 

I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires 

In time's lost morning knew. 
Kindling as priest the lonely altar-fires 

That from earth's darkness grew. 

Then wise with secrets of Chaldsean lore, 

In high Akkadian fane ; 
Or pacing slow by Egypt's river shore, 

In Thothmes' glorious reign. 

I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities 
That Judah's kings betrayed, 

Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees, 
Or Mamre's terebinth shade. 

And, ah ! most piteous vision of the past, 

Drawn by thy being's law, 
I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast, 

Beneath the lion's paw. 

Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon 
The paynim helm and shield ! 

How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon, 
Thy white plume o'er the field. 

*\Vritten immediately before his suicide. 



Strange contradiction ! where the sand waves spread Not less, but more, than others hast thou striven;. 

The boundless desert sea, 
The Bedouin spearmen found their destined head, 
Their dark-eyed chief — ■ in tiiee! 

And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly cell, 
And Skald by Norway's foam, 

Ere fate of poet fixed thy soul to dwell 
In this New England home. 

Here art thou poet, — more than warrior, priest; 

And here thy quiet years 
Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast, 

Or clash of swords or spears. 

The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains, 
These thou wert sent to teach : 

Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins, 
Is turned to gentle speech. 

Thy victories remain : 
The scars of ancient hate, long since forgiven, 
Have lost their power to pain. 

Apostle pure of freedom and of right, 

Thou hadst thy one reward ; 
Thy prayers were heard, and flashed upon thy sight 

The coming of the Lord ! 

Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs, 

Slumbers the blade of truth ; 
But age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs 

The eager hope of youth. 

Another line upon thy hand I trace, 

All destinies above : 
Men know thee most as one that loves his race, 

And bless thee with their love ! 

Bayard Taylor. 


MOURN no more my vanished years : 

Beneath a tender rain, 
An April rain of smiles and tears, 

My heart is young again. 

The west-winds blow, and, singing low, 
I hear the glad streams run ; 

The windows of my soul I throw 
Wide open to the sun. 

No longer forward nor behind 

I look in hope or fear; 
But, grateful, take the good I find, 

The best of now and here. 

I plough no more a desert land, 

To harvest weed and tare ; 
The manna dropping from God's hand 

Rebukes my painful care. 

I break my pilgrim staff, — I lay 

Aside the toiling oar ; 
The angel sought so far away 

I welcome at my door. 

The airs of spring may never play 

Among the ripening corn, 
Nor freshness of the flowers of May 

Blow through the autumn morn; 

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringed lids to heaven, 

And the pale aster in the brook 

Shall see its image given ; — 

The woods shall wear their robes of praise, 
The south-wind softly sigh, 

And sweet, calm days in golden haze 
Melt down the amber sky. 

Not less shall manly deed and word 
Rebuke an age of wrong; 

The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 

Make not the blade less strong. 
But smiting hands shall learn to heal, — 

To build as to destroy ; 
Nor less my heart for others feel 

That I the more enjoy. 
All' as God wills who wisely heeds 

To give or to withhold, 
And knoweth more of all my needs 

Than all my prayers have told ! 

Enough that blessings undeserved 

Have marked my erring track ; — 

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, 
His chastening turned me back; — 

That more and more a Providence 

Of love is understood, 
Making the springs of time and sense 

Sweet with eternal good ; — 

That death seems but a covered way 

Which opens into light, 
Wherein no blinded child can stray 

Beyond the Father's sight ; — 
That care and trial seem at last, 

Through Memory's sunset air, 
Like mountain-ranges overpast, 

In purple distance fair; — 

That all the jarring notes of life 

Seem blending in a psalm, 
And all the angels of its strife 

Slow rounding into calm. 

And so the shadows fall apart, 

And so the west- winds play; 
And all the windows of my heart 

I open to the day. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


-"-'WSj^e/Z'iOr- *— 


|HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 




Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moiling owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

' The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea." 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

" Drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.' 1 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 



The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

' Children run to lisp their sire's return." 

Await alike the inevitable hour ; 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 

" Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield.' 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre ; 



But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

( How jocund did they drive their team afield." 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast^ 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

'Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his field withstood." 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 



The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 

" Wade through slaughter to a throne, 

And shut the gates or mercy on mankind." 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

"With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

For thee, who mindful of the unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate : 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 



There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

' Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove." 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 

"Approach and read — for thou canst read — the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 



The next, with dirges due in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
borne : — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. 


Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; 
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Thomas Gkay. 




<;0 him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
*5F A various language ; for his gayer hours 
jl She has a voice of gladness and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour conies like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart — 
Go forth under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice : Yet a few days arid thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements — 
To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone ; nor could'st thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world,— with kings, 
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 

That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— 

Are but .the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 

Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 

Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them, down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 

In silence from the living, and no friend 

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

William Cullen Bryant. 




REMEMBER, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day, 
But now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

"I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born." 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light! 
The lilacs, where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees' dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 
It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I 'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 

^fflpHEEE appears to exist a greater 
^§|g man's desires, he cannot live lone 

desire to live long than to live well. Measure by 
ig enough ; measure by his good deeds, and he has 
not lived long enough; measure by his evil deeds, and he has lived too long. 




HHO, child of sorrow, to the lonely wood, 
~ And company with trees, and rocks and hills, 

With creeping vines, with flow'rs, and gentle 

That seem themselves to feel the musing mood, 
And feed with thought the charming solitude. 
There is a spirit in the groves that fills 
The heart with such an influence as steals 
The outward sense, and leaves the soul imbued 
With pow'r to hold communion with the dead ; 
And ministering angels here may tell 
Some happy story of the spirit home : 
Some lov'd one gone, for whom the heart has bled, 
May whisper thoughts the sad unrest to quell, 
And point to realms of joy and laid thee come. 



Death in Life ! O grave where grim Despair 

Hath buried hope, and ev'ry pleasing dream 
Of what the years may bring ! The fitf ul gleam 
Of light that lingers yet, but points me where 
A glory might have been ; and shapes of fear 
Look through the gloom, till my surroundings seem 
The work of some malignant thing, supreme 
O'er all my pow'rs to plan, to strive, to bear. 
Ere yet high noon of days, bereft of strength 
To toil for those committed to my hand, 
And doomed to see no more a smiling sun, 
I find that all is bitterness at length. 
Yet, God hath care of us ; here let me stand, 
And say, with steadfast heart, "His will be done." 
Ed. Porter Thompson. 
< >°^-£~<=— 

" Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime." 


|CTT;00 late I stayed , — forgive the crime ! 
j^^ Unheeded flew the hours : 

How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only treads on flowers ! 

And who, with clear account, remarks 
The ebbings of its glass, 


When all its sands are diamond sparks, 
That dazzle as they pass? 

Oh, who to sober measurement 

Time's happy swiftness brings, 
When birds of paradise have lent 

Their plumage to his wings? 

William Robert Spencer. 




J$JII?Y life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 

But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 

Yet on the rose's humble bed 

The sweetest dews of night are shed, 

As if she wept the waste to see, — 

But none shall weep a tear for me! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 
That trembles in the moon's pale ray; 

Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 
Restless — and soon to pass away ! 

Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 

Have, left on Tampa's desert strand; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet,, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea, — 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Richird Henky Wilde. 

'Night is the time for toil, 
To plough the classic field. 3 


fjj|j|lGHT is the time for rest; 

How sweet when labors close, 
To gather round an aching breast 

The curtain of repose ; 
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head 
Upon our own delightful bed ! 

Night is the time for dreams; 

The gay romance of life, 
When truth that is, and truth that seems, 

Blend in fantastic strife; 
Ah ! visions less beguiling far 
Than waking dreanis by daylight are- 

Night is the time for toil ; 

To plough the classic field, 
Intent to find the buried spoil 

Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
Till all is ours that sages taught, 
That poets sang, or heroes wrought. 

Night is the time to weep ; 

To wet with unseen tears 
Those graves of memory, where sleep 

The joys of other years ; 
Hopes that were angels in their birth, 
But perished young, like things of earth ! 



Night is the time to watch ; 

O'er ocean's dark expanse, 
To hail the Pleaides, or catch 

The full moon's earliest glance, 
That brings unto the homesick mind 
All we have loved and left behind. 

Night is the time for care; 

Brooding on hours misspent, 
To see the spectre of despair 

Beyond the starry pole, 
Descries athwart the abyss of night 
The dawn of uncreated light. 

Night is the time to pray ; 

Our Saviour oft withdrew 
To desert mountains far away, — 

So will his followers do ; 
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
And hold communion with their God. 

" Night is the time to watch, 
O'er ocean's dark expanse.' 

Come to our lonely tent : 
Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, 
Startled by Csesar's stalwart ghost. 

Night is the time to muse ; 

Then from the eye the soul 
Takes flight, and with expanding views 

Night is the time for death; 

When all around is peace, 
Calmly to yield the weary breath, — 

From sin and suffering cease : — 
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
To parting friends : — such death be mine, 

James Montgomery. 



Nature's great ancestor! day's elder born! 
And fated to survive the transient sun! 
By mortals and immortals seen with awe : 
A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, 
An azure zone thy waist; clouds, in heaven's 
Wrought through varieties of shape and shade, 

In ample folds of drapery divine, 

Thy flowing mantle form and, heaven throughout, 

Voluminously pour thy pompous train : 

Thy gloomy grandeurs — Nature's most august, 

Inspiring aspect! — claim a grateful verse; 

And, like a sable curtain starred with gold. 

Drawn o'er my labors past, shall close the scene. 




fj§||§REAK, break, break, 

On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still I 

"Break, break, break, 
On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea ! 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at play!. 

O well for the sailor lad, 
That he sings in his boat on the bay. 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Seal 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


|T^fHEN I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; 
when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; 
when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with 
compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the 
vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings 
lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy 
men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and 
astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I 
read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred 
years ago, I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make 
our appearance together. 

Joseph Addison. 




||I||HE splendor falls on castle walls 
s**^ And snowy summits old in story; 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill, or field, or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

" The splendor falls on castle walls, 
And snowy summits old in story." 

O, hark ! O, hear how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther goino-t 
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 


And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


^PHERE the owner of the house is bountiful, it is not for the steward to be 




^MHOSE evening hells! those evening bells! 

6-A--0 How many a tale their music tells 

Of youth and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime ! 

Those joyous hours are passed away; 
And many a heart that then was gay 

Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so 't will be when I am gone, — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on;. 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 

Thomas Moore. 


J^IMONG the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest, 
That seemeth best of all; 

Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 
Dark with the mistletoe ; 

Not for the violets golden 
'That sprinkle the vale helow; 



Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant ledge, 

Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 
And stealing their golden edge ; 

Not for the vines on the upland, 
Where the bright red berries vest, 

Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, 

. It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep : 
Eight as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 
We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, 

And one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 
Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace, 

As the light of immortal beauty 
Silently covered his face; 

And when the arrows of sunset 
Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 

He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 
Asleep by the gates of light. 

" Light as the down of the thistle, 
Free as the winds that blow." 

Therefore of all the pictures 
That hang on Memory's wall, 

The one of the dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all. 

Alice Cary. 



^fjOETBY is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best 
minds. We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and feeling, sometimes 
associated with place or person, sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and 
always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful 
beyond all expression; so that, even in the desire and the regret they leave, there 
cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does in the nature of its object. It is, 
as it were, the interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own ; but its footsteps are 
like those of a wind over the sea, which the morning calm erases, and whose traces remain 
only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions of 
being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and the most 
enlarged imagination; and the state of mind produced by them is at war with every base 
desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship, is essentially linked 
with such emotions; and whilst they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. 
Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most refined organization, 
but they can color all that they combine with the evanescent hues of this ethereal world ; 
a word, a trait in the representation of a scene or passion, will touch the enchanted 
chord, and reanimate, in those who have ever experienced those emotions, the sleeping, 
the cold, the buried image of the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and 
most beautiful in the world ; it arrests the vanishing apparitions which haunt the 
interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language or in form, sends them forth 
among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those with whom their sisters 
abide — abide, because there is no portal of expressions from the caverns of the spirit 
which they inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations 
of the divinity in man. Percy Bysshe Shelley. 




flSTEN to the water-mill 
I Through the live-long day, 
How the clicking of its wheel 
Wears the hours away! 

And a proverb haunts my mind 

As a spell is cast : 
" The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 

<( From the field the reapers sing, 
Binding up the sheaves." 

Languidly the autumn wind 

Stirs the forest leaves, 
Prom the fields the reapers sing, 

Binding up the sheaves ; 

Autumn winds revive no more 
Leaves that once are shed, 

And the sickle cannot reap 
Corn once gathered ; 



Flows the ruffled streamlet on, 

Tranquil, deep and still ; 
Never gliding back again 

To the water-niill ; 
Truly speaks that proverb old 

With a meaning vast — 
" The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 

Take the lesson to thyself, 

True and loving heart; 
Golden youth is fleeting by, 

Summer hours depart; 
Learn to make the most of life, 

Lose no happy day, 
Time will never bring thee back, 

Chances swept away! 
Leave no tender word unsaid, 

Love, while love shall last; 
" The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 

Work while yet the daylight shines, 

Man of strength and will ! 
Never does the streamlet glide 

Useless by the mill ; 
Wait not till to-morrow's sun 

Beams upon thy way, 
All that thou canst call thine own 

Lies in thy "to-day; " 
Power and intellect and health 

May not always last; 
"The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 

Oh, the wasted hours of life 

That have drifted by ! 
Oh, the good that might have been, 

Lost without a sigh ! 

Love that we might once have saved 

By a single word. 
Thoughts conceived but never penned, 

Perishing unheard • 

" Listen to the watermill, 
Through the livelong day." 

Take the proverb to thine heart, 

Take and hold it fast, 
" The mill cannot grind 

With the water that is past." 

Sarah Doudney. 


, where will be the birds that sing, 
A hundred years to come? 
*Y^ The flowers that now in beauty spring, 
Jg_ A hundred years to come? 
*± The rosy lip, the lofty brow, 

The heart that beats so gaily now, 
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, 
Joys pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, 
A hundred years to come? 

Who '11 press for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come? 
Who "11 tread yon church with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come? 


Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth, 
And childhood with its brow of truth; 
The rich and poor, on land and sea, 
Where will the mighty millions be 
A hundred years to come? 

We all within our graves shall sleep 

A hundred years to come ! 
No living soul for us will weep 

A hundred years to come ! 
But other men our lands shall till, 
And others then our streets will fill, 
While other birds will sing as gay, 
As bright the sunshine as to-day 

A hundred years to come! 

William Goldsmith 




mS S at ttieir worlc tw0 weavers sat > 
!*ty*S Beguiling time with friendly chat, 
*?<?y They touched upon the price of meat, 
M. So high a weaver scarce could eat. 

"In spite of all the Scripture teaches, 
In spite of all the pulpit preaches, 
The world, indeed I 've thought so long, 
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong. 

"Quoth John, 'Our ignorance is the cause 
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws.' " 

"What with my babes and sickly wife," 
Quoth James, "I 'm almost tired of life. 
So hard we work, so poor we fare, 
! T is more than mortal man can bear. 

"Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 
'T is all confused, and hard, and strange : 
The good are troubled and opprest, 
And all the wicked are the blest." 

"How glorious is the rich man's state, 
His house so flue, his wealth so great; 
Heaven is unjust, you must agree: 
Why all to him, and none to me? 

Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause 
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws; 
Parts of His ways alone we know, 
'Tls all that man can see below. 



"See'st thou that carpet, not half done, 
Which thou, dear James, hast well begun? 
Behold the wild confusion there ! 
So rude the mass, it makes one stare. 

*'A stranger, ignorant of the trade, 
Would say no meaning's there conveyed ; 
For where 's the middle, where 's the border? 
The carpet now is all disorder." 

Quoth James, "My work is yet in bits, 
But still in every part it fits ; 
Besides, you reason like a lout, 
"Why, man, that carpet 's inside out! " 

Says John. "Thou say'st the thing I mean, 

And now I hope to cure thy spleen : 

The world, which clouds thy soul with 

Is but a carpet inside out. 

"As when we view these shreds and ends, 
We know not what the whole intends ; 

So when on earth things look but odd, 
They 're working still some scheme of God. 

"No plan, no pattern can we trace ; 
All wants proportion, truth, and grace; 
The motley mixture we deride, 
Nor see the beauteous upper side. 

"But when we reach the world of light, 
And view these works of God aright, 
Then shall we see the whole design, 
And own the Workman is divine. 

"What now seem random strokes, will there 
All order and design appear; 
Then shall we praise what here we spurned, 
Eor there the carpet will be turned." 

"Thou'rt right," quoth James, "no more I'll 

That this world is so strange a jumble ; 
My impious doubts are put to flight, 
Eor my own carpet sets me right. 

Hannah More. 



|S| PLUCKED pink blossoms from my Apple-tree, 
lH And wore them all that evening in my hair ; 
" Then in due season when I went to see, 
I found no apples there. 

With dangling basket all along the grass, 

As I had come, I went the self -same track, 
My neighbors mocked me when they saw me pass 
So empty-handed back. 

Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by, 

Their heaped-up baskets teased me like a jeer; 
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the summer sky — 
Their mother's home was near. 

Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full ; 
A stronger hand than hers helped it along ; 

A voice talked with her through the shadows cool, 
More sweet to me than song. 

Ah, Willie, Willie ! was my love less worth 

Than apples with their green leaves piled above? 
I counted rosiest apples on the earth 
Of far less worth than love. 

So once it was with me you stopped to talk, 

Laughing and listening in this very lane : — 
To think that by these ways we used to walk 
We shall not walk again ! 

I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twos 

And groups ; the latest said the night grew chill, 
And hastened ; but I lingered ; while the dews 
Pell fast; I lingered still. 



GAZED upon the glorious sky, 

And the green mountains round, 
And thought that when I came to lie 

At rest within the ground, 
'Twere pleasant that in flowery June, 
When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 

And groves a joyous sound, 
The sexton's hand, my grave to make, 
The rich, green mountain turf should break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 
A coftin borne through sleet, 

And icy clods above it rolled, 
While fierce the tempests beat — 

Away ! I will not think of these ; 

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 
Earth green beneath the feet. 

And be the damp mould gently pressed 

Into my narrow place of rest. 



There, through the long, long summer hours 

The golden light should lie, 
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 

Stand in their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 

I know that I no more should see 

The season's glorious show, 
Nor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild music flow ; 
But if, around my place of sleep 
The friends I love should come to weep, 

They might not haste to go ; 
Soft airs, and song, and light and bloom 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 

" And what if, in the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight, 
Of my low monument?" 

And what if cheerful shouts at noon 

Come, from the village sent, 
Or song of maids beneath the moon 

With fairy laughter blent? 
And what if, in the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 

Of my low monument? 
I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 


These to their softened hearts should bear 

The thought of what has been, 
And speak of one who cannot share 

The gladness of the scene ; 
Whose part in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills 

Is that his grave is green ; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 

William Cullen Bkyant. 
— $. 

SplS every instinct, or sense, lias an end or design, and every emotion in man has 
£*$lt its object and direction, we must conclude that the desire of communing with God 
is but a test of his being destined for a future existence, and the longing after immortality 
the promise of it. 




§USH ! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
°^JVA. faint and starry radiance, through the gloom, 
J4 And the sweet stillness, down on fair young 
With all their clust'ring locks, untouched by care, 
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in 

Gaze on— 'tis lovely! Childhood's lip and cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 

Gaze— yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek 
And fragile thiugs, as but for sunshine wrought? 

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 

What death must fashion for Eternity. 

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 
Is woman's tenderness, — how soon her woe! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's 
And sumless riches, from affection's deep, 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower! 
And to make idols, and to find ti . clay, 
And to bewail that worship,— therefore pray! 

Her lot is on you— to be found untired, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; 

" Fair young: heads, 

With all their clust'ring locks, untouched by care, 

And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer." 

O joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, 

As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 
'Midst the dim-folded leaves at set of sun — 

Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled 

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread. 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And oh! to love through all things— therefore pray! 

And take the thought of this calm vesper-time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery 

On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight : 

Earth will forsake — O! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 




> what 's a life? — a weary pilgrimage, 

Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage 

*ff^ With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. 


•4p And what 's a life? — ■ the flourishing array 

w Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 

i Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay. 

Bead on this dial, how the shades devour 

My short-lived winter's day! hour eats up hour; 

Alas ! the total 's but from eight to four. 

Behold these lilies, which thy hands have made, 

Fair copies of my life, and open laid 

To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade! 

Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon ; 
My non-aged day already points to noon ; 
How simple is my suit ! — how small my boon ! 

Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile 

The time away, or falsely to beguile 

My thoughts with joy: here 's nothing worth a smile. 

Francis Quarles. 

"Yonder ;i man at the heavens is staring, 
Wringing his hands as in sorrowful case." 


|i»ALM is the night, and the city is sleeping 
«|i Once in this house dwelt a lady fair; 
*W? Long, long ago, she left it, weeping— 

But still the old house is standing there. 

Yonder a man at the heavens is staring, 
Wringing his hands as in sorrowful case; 

He turns to the moonlight, his countenance baring — 
O Heaven ! he shows me my own sad face ! 

Shadowy form, with my own agreeing! 

Why mockest thou thus, in the moonlight cold, 
The sorrows which here once vexed my being, 

Many a night in the days of old? 

Chaules Godfeey Lelantd. 

[From the German of Seine.] 




A> . 

pE sail toward evening's lonely star, 

That trembles in the tender blue ; 
One single cloud, a dusky bar, 

Burnt vvith dull carmine through and through, 
Slow smouldering in the summer sky, 

Lies low along the fading west; 
How sweet to watch its splendors die, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind caressed! 

The soft breeze freshens ; leaps the spray 
To kiss our cheeks with sudden cheer; 

Upon the dark edge of the bay 
Light-houses kindle far and near, 

And through the warm deeps of the sky 
Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest 

In deep refreshment, thou and I, 
Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed. 

How like a dream are earth and heaven, 

Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea; 
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even, 

Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
Oh, realize the moment's charm, 

Thou dearest! We are at life's best, 
Folded in God's encircling arm, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed! 

Celia Thaxter. 

' Over the flowery lawn, 
Maids are at play." 


|AS the old glory passed 
From tender May — 
^T^f That never the echoing blast 
?j Of bugle-horns merry, and fast 
•^ Dying away like the past, 
Welcomes the day? 

Has the old Beauty gone 
From golden May — 
That not any more at dawn 

Over the flowery lawn, 
Or kDolls of the forest withdrawn, 
Maids are at play? 

Is the old freshness dead 

Of the fairy May?— 
Ah ! the sad tear-drops unshed ! 
Ah ! the young maidens unwed ! 
Golden locks — cheeks rosy red ! 

Ah ! where are they? 

John Esten Cooke. 




iWTLIGHT'S soft dews steal o'er the village green, 
With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
Stilled is the hum that through the hamletbroke, 
When round the ruins of their ancient oak 
The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, 
And games and carols closed the busy day. 

Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more 

With treasured tales and legendary lore. 

All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows 

To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 

All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! 

What secret charms this silent spot endear? 

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 
And traced the line of life with searching view, 
How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and 

To learn the color of my future years ! 

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, 
Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. 
Awake but one, and, lo ! what myriads rise! 
Each stamps its image as the other flies. 
Each, as the various avenues of sense 
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, 

"With treasured tales and legendary lore.' 

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, 
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arched with ivy 's brownest shade, 
Eirst to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown 

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; 
When all things pleased, for life itself was new, 
And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 


Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
The gypsy 's fagot, — there we sat and gazed ; 
Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe, 
Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw. 

Brightens or fades ; yet all, with magic art, 
Control the latent fibres of the heart. 
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell 
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell; 
Each, at thy call, advances or retires, 
As judgment dictates or the scene inspires. 
Each thrills the seat of seuse, that sacred source 
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, 
And through the frame invisibly convey 
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play; 
Man's little universe at once o'ercast, 
At once illumined when the cloud is past. 



Hark ! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, 
Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. 
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, 
And many a stream allures her to its source. 
'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, 
Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, 
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind ; 
Its orb so full, its vision so confined ! 
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? 
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell? 
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clew 
Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew? 
Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign 
Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. 

To meet the changes time and chance present 
With modest dignity and calm content. 
When thy last breath, ere nature sunk to rest, 
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed ; 
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, 
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed; 
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, 
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave? 
The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth, 
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth I 

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine 
Prom age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! 
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
And place and time are subject to thy sway! 

" The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court.' 

O thou ! with whom my heart was wont to share 
From reason's dawn each pleasure and each care ; 
With whom, alas! I fondly hoped to know 
The humble walks of happiness below; 
If thy blest nature now unites above 
An angel's pity with a brother's love, 
Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, 
Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; 
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, 
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned ; 
Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, 
Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise, 

Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone; 
The only pleasures we can call our own. 
Lighter than air, hope's summer-visions die, 
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; 
If but a beam of sober reason play, 
Lo ! fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! 
But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power, 
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 
Pour round her path a stream of living light; 
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
"Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! 

Samuel Rogers. 




f?lS?% THING of beauty is a joy forever: 
|*pi| Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Tf'jk 3 Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 

J4. A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

X Pull of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 

I breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways 
Made for our searching; yes, in spite of all, 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

Prom our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 
With the green world they live in ; and clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
-All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the Heaven's brink. 

John Keats. 


the last rose of summer 

Left blooming alone; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kiudred, 

No rosebud is nigh, 
To reflect back her hlushes, 


I '11 not leave thee, thou lone one, 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go sleep thou with them. 

Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow, 

When friendships decay, 
And from Love's shining circle 

The gems drop away ! 
When true hearts lie withered 

And fond ones are flown, 
Oh! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone? 

Thomas Moore. 



jH, a wonderful stream is the River Time, 
Wm As it flows through the realm of Tears, 

With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime 
As it blends with the ocean of Years. 

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow 

And the summers like buds between; 
And the year in the sheaf — so they come and they go 
On the River's breast with its ebb and flow, 

As they glide in the shadow and sheen. 

There 's a magical Isle up the River Time 

Where the softest of airs are playing; 
There 's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are staying 

And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, 
And we bury our treasures there ; 

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow — 
They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so ! 
There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 

And a part of an infant's prayer, 
There 's a harp unswept and a lute without strings, 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 

And the garments that she used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted in air ; 
And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 

When the wind down the River is fair. 

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle 

All the day of our life till night, 
And when evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile, 

May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight. 

Benjamin P. Taylor. 




jT summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, 
"Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky? 
"Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, 

And every form, that Fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 

* * * * * * % 

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime 
Peeled their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
Thy joyous youth began, — but not to fade. 
When all the sister planets have decayed; 
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below 
Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. 

Thomas Campbell. 


, while from me, this tender morn depart 
Dreams, vague and vain and wild, 
: Sing, happy child, and dance into my heart, 
Where I was once a child. 

Tour eyes they send the butterflies before, 

Your lips they kiss the rose ; 
O gentle child, joy opes your morning door — 

Joy blesses your repose ! 

The fairy Echo-Children love you, try 

To steal your loving voice ; 
Flying you laugh— they, laughingwhile youfly, 

Gay with your glee rejoice. 

Oh, while from me, this tender morn depart 

Dreams vague and vain and wild. 
Play, happy child — sing, dance, within my heart, 

"Where I will be a child ! 

John James Piatt. 




BAY follows day; years perish; still mine eyes 

Are opened on the self-same round of space; 
Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace, 
And the large splendors of those opulent skies. 
I watch, unwearied, the miraculous dyes 
Of dawn or sunset ; the soft boughs which lace 
Round some coy Dryad in a lonely place, 
Thrilled with low whispering and strange sylvan sighs: 

His clear child's soul finds something sweet and new 
Even in a weed's heart, the carved leaves of corn, 
The spear-like grass, the silvery rime of morn, 
A cloud rose-edged, and fleeting stars at night! - 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 

" Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace." 

Weary! The poet's mind is fresh as dew, 
And oft refilled as fountains of the light. 


ff^REEN grows the laurel on the hank, 
<gp([ Dark waves the pine upon the hill, 
?H§? Green hangs the lichen, cold aud dank, 
4 Dark springs the hearts-ease by the rill, 
I Age-mosses clamber ever bright, 
Pale is the water-lily's bloom : 
Thus life still courts the shades of night, 
And beauty hovers o'er the tomb. 

So, all through life, incongruous hue 

Each object wears from childhood down; 
The evanescent — heaven's blue, 

The all-enduring — sober brown; 
Our brightest dreams too quickly die, 

And griefs are green that should be old, 
Aud joys that sparkle to the eye 

Are like a tale that's quickly told. 

And yet 'tis but the golden mean 

That checks our lives' unsteady flow; 
God's counterbalance thrown between, 

To poise the scale 'twixt joy and woe: 
And better so ; for were the bowl 

Too freely to the parched lip given, 
Too much of grief would crush the soul, 

Too much of joy would wean from heaven. 

Egbert Phelps. 



flCTY^IE sun of life has crossed the line; 
sUSss The summer-shine of lengthened light 
Faded and failed — till, where I stand, 
'Tis equal day and equal night. 

One after one as dwindling hours, 
Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, 

And soon may barely leave the gleam 
That coldly scores a winter's day. 

I am not young — I am not old ; 

The flush of morn, the sunset calm, 
Paling and deepening, each to each, 

Meet midway with a solemn charm. 

One side I see the summer fields, 
Not yet disrobed of all their green ; 

While westerly, along the hills, 
Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. 

Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm 
Make battle-ground of this my life ! 

Where, even matched, the night and day 
Wage round me their September strife. 

I bow me to the threatening gale : 

I know when that is overpast, 
Among the peaceful harvest days 

An Indian Summer comes at last. 

Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 




fwO children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas ; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; 
Two lives bound fast iu one with golden ease ; 

Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, 
Washed with still rains and daisy-blossomed; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred;, 
So rims the round of life from hour to hour. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

"The nightingale, whose melody is through the green-wood ringing." 



|HE rose upon my balcony, the morning air per- And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his sing- 
Hi! fuming, ing, 

^fjk* Was leafless all the winter-time and pining for It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are 

Ji the spring; green. 

You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her ^^ each performs his part, Mamma: the birds have 

cheek is blooming : found their voiceSi 

It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing. Tne blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to 


The nightingale, whose melody is through the green- And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which 

wood ringing, wakens and rejoices. 

Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that 's the rea- 
were blowing keen. son why. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 




fgjjsULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, 

And the winter winds are wearily sighing: 
Toll ye the church -bell sad and slow- 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he '11 he dead before. 

Oid year, you must not die; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 

Old year, you must not go ; 

So long as you have been with us, 

Such joy as you have seen with us, 

Old year, you shall not go. 

He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But, though his eyes are waxing dim, 
And though his foes speak ill of him, 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I 've half a mind to die with you, 

Old year, if you must die. 

•'Full ltnee-deep lies the winter snow." 

Every one for his own. 
The night is starry and cold, my friend, 
And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend, 
Comes up to take his own. 



How hard he hreathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows nicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 
'Tis nearly twelve o clock. 

Shake hands before you die. 

Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you : 

What is it we can do for you? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin .- 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There "s a new foot on the floor, my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


fFTAT song is well sung, not of sorrow? 
'Jk&${ What triumph well won without pain? 
What virtue shall be, and not borrow 
Bright lustre from many a stain? 

What birth has there been without travail? 

What battle well won without blood? 
What good shall earth see, without evil 

Ingarnered as chaff with the good? 

Lo ! the Cross set in rocks by the Roman, 
And nourished by blood of the Lamb, 

And watered by tears of the woman, 
Has flourished, has spread like a palm; 

Has spread in the frosts, and far regions 
Of snows in the North, and South sands, 

Where never the tramp of his legions 
Was heard, nor has reached forth his red hands. 

Be thankful ; the price and the payment, 
The birth, the privations and scorn, 

The cross, and the parting of raiment, 
Are finished. The star brought us morn. 

Look starward ; stand far and unearthy, 

Free-souled as a banner unfurled ; 
Be worthy, O brother, be .worthy ! 

For a God was the price of the world. 

Joaquin Miller. 



v'T^-LAS ! how light a cause may move 

Dissension between hearts that love! 

Hearts that the world in vain has tried, 

And sorrow but more closely tied ; 

That stood the storm when waves were rough, 

Yet in a sunny hour fall off, 

Like ships that have gone down at sea, 

When heaven was all tranquillity! 

A something light as air, — a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken, — 
O, love that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this has shaken! 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words begin; 
And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smilitig day; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they said; 
Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone, 

And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds, — or like the stream, 
That smiling left the mountain's brow, 

As though its waters ne'er could sever, 
Yet, ere it reach the plain below, 

Breaks into floods that part forever. 

O you, that have the charge of Love, 

Keep him in rosy bondage bound, 
As in the Fields of Bliss above 

He sits, with flowerets fettered round ; — 
Loose not a tie that round him clings, 
Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
For even an hour, a minute's night 
Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
Like that celestial bird, — whose nest 

Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — 
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, — 

Lose all their glory when he flies ! 

Thomas Moore. 

IplljlEASON as the princess, dwells in the highest and inwardest room; the senses arc 
^Vl the guards and attendants on the court, without whose aid nothing is admitted 
into the presence ; the supreme faculties are the Peers ; the outward parts and inward 
affections are the Commons. 




""iJyflpjY days among the dead are pass'd; 

Around me I behold, 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 

The mighty minds of old ; 
My never-failing friends are they 
With whom I converse night and day. 


My thoughts are with the dead, with them 

I live in long-past years, 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their griefs and fears; 
And from their sober lessons find 
Instruction with a humble mind. 

£K ; lfi 

"With them I take delight in weal, 
And seek relief in woe." 

With them I take delight in weal, 
And seek relief in woe ; 

And while I understand and feel 
How much to them I owe, 

My cheeks have often been bedewed 

With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My hopes are with the dead : anon 

With them my place will be; 
And I with them shall travel on 

Through all futurity ; 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
Which will not perish in the dust. 





>Jf OODMAN, spare that tree! 

Touch not a single bough! 
In youth it sheltered me, 

And I '11 protect it now. 
'T was my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot ; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not! 

When hut an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade : 
In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here; 

My father pressed my hand- 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand ! 

" When but an idle boy 
I sought its grateful shade; 

In all their gushing joy 
Here too my sisters played.' 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea : 

And would'st thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 
Oh, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies! 


My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend! 
Here shall the wild-bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While I 've a hand to save. 

Thy ax shall harm it not. 

Geokge P. Mokkis. 




~'fflM TEAVELEE through a dusty road strewed He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the 

i c4$% acorns on the lea, brink, 

;.;• And (me took root and sprouted up, and grew He thought not of the deed he did, hut judged that 

* into a tree. toil might drink. 

I Love sought its shade, at evening time, to He passed again, and lo ! the well, by summers never 

<• breathe, its early vows : dried, 

And ao-e was pleased, in heats of noon, to bask be- Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved 

neath its boughs ; a life beside. 

" It stood a glory in its place, 
A blessing evermore." 

The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds a dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, 

sweet music bore ; and yet > t was new ; 

It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore. A simp i e f ancy f the brain, hut strong in being 

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and true. 

f ern It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light 

A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men became 

might turn ; A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. 



The thought was small; its issue great; a watch-fire A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a transitory 

, on the hill, breath,— 

It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from 
still! death. 

A nameless man, amid a crowd that thronged the ° ge ™ ! ° tou f ! ° word of love! ° thou g M at ™P- 
daily mart, v domcast! 

Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from * e WBre but little at the fll ' st ' but mi S ht Y ** the last, 
the heart; Chakles Mackav. 



FS1 SPIBIT of the Summer-time ! 

Bring back the roses to the dells ; 

The swallow from her distant clime, 

The hone} r -bee from drowsy cells. 

Bring back the friendship of the sun; 
The gilded evenings, calm and late, 

- a^TZ'^v^v 

When merry children homeward run, 
And peeping stars bid lovers wait. 

Bring back the singing ; and the scent 
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime; — 

Oh bring again my heart's content, 
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time ! 

William Allingham. 


GRANDLY flowing River] 

O silver-gliding River ! 

Thy springing willows shiver 

In the sunset as of old ; 
They shiver in the silence 
Of the willow-whitened islands, 
While the sun-bars and the sand-bars 

Fill air and wave with gold. 

O gray, oblivious River! 
O sunset- kindled River! 
Do you remember ever 
The eyes and skies so blue 

On a summer day that shone here, 
When we were all alone here, 
And the blue eyes were too wise 
To speak the love they knew? 

O stern, impassive River! 
O still unanswering River! 
The shivering willows quiver 

As the night-winds moan and rave. 
From the past a voice is calling, 
From heaven a star is falling, 
And dew swells in the bluebells 

Above the hillside grave. 

John Hay. 



Up hope a king doth go to war, 

In hope a lover lives full long; 
In hope a merchant sails full far, 
In hope just men do suffer wrong; 

In hope the ploughman sows his seed : 
Thus hope helps thousands at their need. 
Then faint not, heart, among the rest; 
Whatever chance, hope thou the best. 

Richard Alison. 




BARKING sound the shepherd hears, 

A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
He halts and searches with his eyes 

Among the scattered rocks : 
And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
And instantly a dog is seen, 
Glancing through that covert green. 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps till June December's snow; 
A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below ! 
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
Remote from public road or dwelling, 
Pathway, or cultivated land, 
From trace of human foot or hand. 

' The dog; had watched about the spot, 
Or by his master's side." 

The dog is not of mountain breed ; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy, 
With something, as the shepherd thinks, 

Unusual in its cry. 
Nor is there any one in sight 
All round, iu hollow, or on height; 
Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes the ear : 
What is the creature doing here? 

There, sometimes, doth the leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 

The crag repeats the raven's croak, 
In symphony austere; 

Thither the rainbow comes, — the cloud, - 

And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 

And sunbeams, and the sounding blast, 

That, if it could, would hurry past; 

But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 



Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
The shepherd stood; then makes his 
Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, 

As quickly as he may; 
Not far had gone before he found 
A human skeleton on the ground! 
Th' appalled discoverer, with a sigh, 
Looks round to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The man had fallen, — that place of fear! 
At length, upon the shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear; 
He instantly recalled the name, 
And who he was, and whence he came ; 
Remembered, too, the very day 
On which the traveler passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I tell ! 
A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 
The dog. which still was hovering nigh, 
Repeating the same timid cry, — 
This dog had been, through three months' 

A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain, that since that day, 
When this ill-fated traveler died, 

The dog had watched about the spot, 
Or by his master's side : 

How nourished here, through such long time, 

He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 

And gave that strength of feeling, great 

Above all human estimate. 

William Wordsworth. 


|RIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast, 

Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
Let star and stripe be westward cast, 

And point as freedom's eagle flew! 
Strain home ! O lithe and quivering spars ! 
Point home, my country's flag of stars ! 
My mother, in thy prayer to-night 

There come new words and warmer tears ; 
On long, long darkness breaks the light, 

Comes home the loved, the lost for years. 


Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner! 

Fear not to-night, or storm or sea: 
The ear of heaven bends low to her! 

He sails to shore who sails with me. 
The wind-tossed spider needs no token 

How stands the tree when lightnings blaze; 
And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, 

I know my mother lives and prays. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 


P^HEN last year the maple bud was swelling, 

When last the crocus bloomed below. 
Thy heart to mine its love was telling; 

Thy soul with mine kept ebb and flow; 
Again the maple bud is swelling, 

Again the crocus blooms below : — 
In heaven thy heart its love is telling, 

But still our souls keep ebb and flow. 

When last the April bloom was flinging 

Sweet odors on the air of spring, 
In forest aisles thy voice was ringing, 

Where thou didst with the red-bird sing. 
Again the April bloom is flinging 

Sweet odors on the air of spring, 
But now in heaven thy voice is ringing, 

Where thou dost with the angels sing. 

William D. Gallagher. 




LITTLE word in kindness spoken, 

A motion or a tear, 
Has ofteu healed the heart that's broken, 

And made a friend sincere. 

A word, a look, has crushed to earth 
Full many a budding flower, 

Which, had a smile but owned its birth, 
Would bless life's darkest hour. 

Then deem it not an idle thing 

A pleasant word to speak ; 
The face you wear, the thoughts you bring, 

A heart may heal or break. 





SpHE birds must know. Who wisely sings 
'' lV Will sing as they. 

The common air has generous wings : 
Songs make their way. 

No messenger to run before, 

Devising plan; 
No mention of the place, or hour, 

To any man ; 
No waiting till some sound betrays 

A listening ear ; 
No different voice, no new delays, 

If steps draw near. 

"What bird is that? The song is 

And eager eyes 
Go peering through the dusky wood 
In glad surprise. 

Then, late at night, when by 
his fire, 

The traveler sits, 
Watching the flame grow 
brighter, higher, 

The sweet song flits, 
By snatches, through his weary brain, 

To help him rest; 
When next he goes that road again, 

An empty nest 
On leafless bough will make him sigh : 

' ' Ah me ! last spring, 
Just here I heard, in passing by, 
That rare bird sing." 

But while he sighs, remembering 

How sweet the song, 
The little bird, on tireless wing, 

Is borne along 
In other air; and other men, 

With weary feet, 
On other roads, the simple strain 

Are finding sweet. 

The birds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they. 
The common air has generous wings : 

Songs make their way. 

Helen Hunt Jackson (H. H.). 





pl||HE pulls a rose from her rose-tree, 
JZ-?! Kissing its soul to him, — 
X Far over years, far over dreams 
I And tides of chances dim. 

J He plucks from his heart a poem, 
A flower-sweet messenger, — 

Far over years, far over dreams, 
Flutters its soul to her. 

These are the world-old lovers, 
Clasped in one twilight's gleam; 

Yet he is hut a dream to her, 
And she a poet's dream. 

John James Piatt. 

-i_E3 ^-Gr F^ r- 

'■ Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
That crown the watery glade." 


ilKPjE distant spires, ye antique towers, 
That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye that from the stately hrow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 
His silver-winding way : 

Ah, happy hills! ah pleasing shade! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentaiy bliss bestow, 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 



Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 

The captive linnet which enthrall? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying ball? 

While some on earnest business bent 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty : 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry : 
Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast: 
Theirs buxom, health of rosy hue, 
Wild wit, invention ever new, 

And lively cheer of vigor born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly the approach of morn. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom, 

The little victims play ; 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate. 

And black Misfortune's baleful train! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand. 
To seize their prey, the murderous band ! 

Ah, tell them they are men ! 

-° C -0'G ^ 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind, 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye, 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen, 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rage': 
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band, 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings: all are men, 

Condemned alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain, 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

And happiness too swiftly flies? 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 
No more : where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 

Thomas Gray. 


Y life is like a stroll upon the beach, 

As near the ocean's edge as I can go ; 
j; My tardy steps the waves sometimes o'errcach, 
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. 

My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulous care, 
To set my gains beyond the reach of tides — 

Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, 
Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. 

I have but few companions on the shore, — 
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea; 

Yet oft I think the ocean they 've sailed o'er 
Is deeper known upon the strand to me. 

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view; 

Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, 
And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. 
Henky David Thoeeau. 




flFE is unutterably dear, 
God makes to-day so fair; 
Though Heaven is better,— being here 
I long not to be there. 

The weights of life are pressing still, 
Not one of them may fall ; 

■* ^sx^ 4- 


Yet such strong joys my spirit fill, 
That I can bear them all. 

Though Care and Grief are at my side, 

There would I let them stay, 
And still be ever satisfied 

With beautiful To-day! 

Charlotte Fiske Bates. 

iSHO where the water glideth gently ever, 
WM Glidefh through meadows that the greenest be; 
jjjj Go, listen our own beloved river, 
i And think of me. 

And when the sky is silver-pale at even. 

And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree, 
Walk out beneath the solitary heaven, 

And think of me. 

"Go where the water glideth gently ever, 
Glideth through meadows that the greenest be.' 

Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth 

Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree ; 
List to the dim brook pining as it playeth, 

And think of me. 

And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming, 

And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea, 
Go silent as a star beneath her beaming, 

And think of me. 
John Hamilton Reynolds. 
■°gSE^^/-3" — ° — " 


ff|j§OFT on the sunset sky 
'£9.' Bright daylight closes, 


Leaving when light doth die, 
Pale hues that niingling lie — 
Ashes of roses. 

When love's warm sun is set, 

Love's brightness closes; 
Eyes with hot tears are wet, 
In hearts there linger yet 

Ashes of roses. 

Elaine Good ale. 




sBMHOSE we love truly never die, 
gfib Though year by yenr the sad memorial wreath, 
,yfC a ring and flowers, types of life and deatli, 
J4> Are laid upon their graves. 

For death the pure life saves, 
And life all pure is love; and love 'can reach 
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach 

Than those by mortals read. 

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead : 
A friend he has whose face will never change— 

A dear communion that will not grow strange ; 
The anchor of a love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years. 
For her who died long since, ah ! waste not tears, 

She 's thine unto the end. 

Thank God for one dear friend, 
With face still radiant with the light of truth, 
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth, 

Through twenty years of death. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 




f ITH deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — ■ 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
'• Old Adrian's Mole " in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious, 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 

But the sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly ; — 
O, the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in. 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free. 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There 's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosk O 
In St. Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer. 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there is an anthem 

More, dear to me, — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony (Father Prout) . 




|KOME hearts go hungering through the world, 
ill And never find the love they seek ; 
jjt Some lips with pride or scorn are curled, 
'{' To hide the pain they may not speak ; 
The eye may flash, the mouth may smile, 

The voice in gladdest music thrill, 
And yet heneath them all the while, 
The hungry heart be pining still. 

O eager eyes which gaze afar! 

O arms which clasp the empty air. 
Not all unmarked your sorrows are, 

Not all unpitied your despair. 
Smile, patient lips, so proudly dumb ; 

When life's frail tent at last is furled, 
Your glorious recompense shall come, 

O hearts that hunger through the world ! 

~ a -wfz£ : &j 

"I saw two clouds at morning 
Tinged with the rising sun." 


SAW two clouds at morning, 

Tinged with the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one; 
I thought that morning cloud was blest, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 
Flow smoothly to their meeting, 

And join their course, with silent force, 
In peace each other greeting ; 

Calm was their course through banks of green, 
While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat; 
Like summer's beam and summer's stream, 

Float on in joy to meet 
A calmer sea where storms shall cease, 
A purer sky where all is peace. 

John G. C. Bkainakd. 




„„^EARY of myself, and sick of asking 
.jSfft What I am and wb - at I ought to be, 
§$ljljS At this vessel's prow I stand, which hears me 

"^ Forward, forward, o'er the star-lit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea and to the stars I send . 

"Ye who from my childhood have calmed mo, 

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! 

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, 
On my heart your mighty'charm renew, 
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, 
Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! " 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 
Over the lit sea's unquiet way, 
In the rustling night-air came the answer : 
"Would'st thou be as these are? Live as thev. 

"Unaff righted by the silence round them, 
Undisturbed by the sights they see, 
These demand not that the things without them 
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 

"And with joy the stars perform their shining, 
And the sea its long moon-silvered roll, 
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
In what state God's other works may he, 
On their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
These attain the mighty life you see." 

O air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
A cry like thine in my own heart I hear : 
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he 
Who finds himself, loses his misery ! " 

Matthew Arnold. 

-fSSg— £ss 


|AYS of my youth, ye have glided away . 
.5S# Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray : 
*?p Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more : 
H Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er : 
Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone : 
Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are 

Day of my youth, I wish not your recall : 
Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall : 
Eyes of my youth, ye much evil have seen: 

Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears you have been: 
Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray: 
Strength of my youth, why lament your decay? 

Days of my age, ye will shortly be past : 
Pains of my age, yet awhile you can last : 
Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight : 
Eyes of my age, be religion your light : 
Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod : 
Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. 

St. George Tucker. 

-!r-9°+* MO +-°Qst; 


j CJ^HOULD auld acquaintance be forgot 
gJlP And never brought to min'? 

Should auld acquaintance he forgot, 
And days o' lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We '11 take a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae rin about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine; 
But we 've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
Frae mornin' sun till dine; 

But seas between us braid hae roared 
Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie 's a hand o' thine; 
And we '11 take a right guid willie-waugt 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll he mine ; 
And we '11 take a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, etc. 

Robert Burns. 




<h* , 

HAKMLESS fellow, wasting useless days, 
Am I; I love my comfort and my leisure; 
Let those who wish them toil for gold and 

praise ; 
To me the summer day brings more of pleasure. 

So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease, 
While solemn voices from the past are calling, 

Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees, 
And pleasant sounds of water idly falling. 

There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought 
To make a name, a home, a bright existence, 

But time has shown me that my dreams are 
Save a mirage that vanished with the distance. 

Well, it is gone : I care no longer now 
For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises ; 

Rather than wear a crown upon my brow, 
I '11 lie forever here among the daisies. 

■ So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease." 

There was a time when I had higher aims 
Thau thus to lie among the flowers and listen 

To listening birds, or watch the sunset's flames 
On the broad river's surface glow and glisten. 

So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by, 
With you I surely cannot think to quarrel; 

Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie, 
And spare me both the labor and the laurel ! 

George Arnold. 



aIT'E have been friends together, 
J^%i : - In sunshine and in shade, 

Since first beneath the chestnut-trees 

In infancy we played. 
But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 
We have been friends together, 
Shall a light word part us now? 

We have been gay together, 
We have laughed at little jests; 

For the fount of hope was gushing 
Warm and joyous in our breasts. 

But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 

And sullen glooms thy brow ; 
We have been gay together, — 

Shall a light word part us now? 

We have been sad together, — 

We have wept with bitter tears 
O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered 

The hopes of early years. 
The voices which weie silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
We have been sad together, — 

O, what shall part us now? 
Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 




TfVLONE I walked the ocean strand, 
|Slj| A pearly shell was in my hand : 
I stooped and wrote upon the sand 

My name, the year and day : — 

As onward from the spot I passed, 

One lingering look behind I cast, — 

A wave came rolling high and fast, 

And washed my line away. 

And so, methought, 't will quickly be 
With every mark ou earth with me: 
A wave of dark oblivion's sea 
Will sweep across the place 

Where I have trod the sandy shore 
Of time, and been to be no more — 
Of me, my day, the uame I bore, 
To leave no track or trace. 

And yet, with Him who counts the sands, 
And holds the water in his hands, 
I know a lasting record stands, 

Inscribed against my name, 
Of all this mortal part has wrought, 
Of all this thinking soul has thought, 
And from these fleeting moments caught, 

For glory or for shame. 

George D. Prentice. 

"And I thought of the trees under which we had strayed." 


\ ^Ty ^^ years have elapsed since I gazed on the I thought of the green banks, that circled around, 

gfc| scene. With wild-flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine 

|P Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of crowned, 

A green,— I thought of the river, all quiet and bright 

| The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless I As the face of the sky on a blue summer night : 
\ strayed 

By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade. And I thought of the trees, under which we had 


Ithoughtof the friends who hadroamedwith me there, Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of 
When the sky was so blue and the flowers were so shade ; 

fair, — And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find 

All scattered — all sundered by mountain and wave, Of the names and the carvings, impressed on the 
And some in the silent embrace of the grave ! rind. 



All eager, I hastened the scene to behold, 
Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old ; 
And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should ex- 
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore. 

'T was a dream ! — not a token or trace could I view 
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew : 
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, 
"Like a tale that is told"— they had vanished away. 

Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above, 
Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove. 

I paused : — and the moral came home to my heart : — 
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart! 
Our visions are baseless,— our hopes but a gleam,— 
Our staff but a reed,— and our life but a dream. 

Then, O, let us look — let our prospects allure- 
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure, 

'I thought of the river all quiet and bright." 

And methought the lone river, that murmured along, 
Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, 

To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime 

O'er the blightings of Change, and the ruins of Time. 

sr-a - 


sat 5 

•TIX'HREE words fall sweetly on my soul 
k^*hs As music from an angel lyre, 
/jK That bid my spirit spurn control 
* And upward to its source aspire ; 
The sweetest sounds to mortals given 
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven. 

Dear Mother! ne'er shall I forget 
Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile ! 

Though in the sea of death hath set 
Thy star of life, my guide awhile, 

Oh, never shall thy form depart 

Prom the bright pictures in my heart. 

And like a bird that from the flowers, 
Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest, 

My spirit, e'en in manhood's hours, 
Turns back in childhood's Home to rest; 

The cottage, garden, hill and stream, 

Still linger like a pleasant dream. 

And while to one engulfing grave, 
By time's swift tide we 're driven, 

How sweet the thbught that every wave 
But bears us nearer Heaven ! 

There we shall meet when life is o'er, 
In that blest Home, to part no more. 

William Goldsmith Brown. 


SlYjHEN give me back that time of pleasures, 
as*^5 While yet in joyous growth I sang, — 
Jk When, like a fount, the crowding measures 
» Uninterrupted gushed and sprang! 

Then bright mist veiled the world before me, 
In opening buds a marvel woke, 
As I the thousand blossoms broke 
Which eveiy valley richly bore me ! 

I nothing had, and yet enough for youth — 
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. 

Give unrestrained the old emotion, 
The bliss that touched the verge of pain, 
The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion, — 
O, give me back my youth again ! 

Bayard Taylor. 

(From the German of Goethe.) 




STOOD beside my window one stormy winter day, 
And watched the light white snow-flakes flutter 
X^ast ; 
And I saw, though each one wandered its silent, 
separate way. 

" ' So men must lie down, too, 1 I said, 
' When life is past.' " 

They all sank down upon the ground at last. 
" So men must lie down, too," I said, 
"When life is past." 

From out the self-same window, when soft spring 
days were come, 
I watched the fan- white clouds that sailed the blue ; 
Could those bright pearly wonders far up in heaven's 
high dome 
Be the old wintry snow-banks that I knew? 
" So men shall one day rise again," 
I whispered, "too." 

Cakoline Leslie. 


WALK in sadness and alone 

Beside Time's flowing river; 
Their steps I trace upon the sand 
Who wandered with me baud in hand, 

But now are gone forever. 

Upon that river, dark and deep 

My boat will soon be tossing; 
By earth-sounds growing faiut and low, 
By mists that blind my eyes, I know 

I must be near the crossing. 

And so I walk with silent tread 

Beside Time's flowing river, 
And wait the plashing of the oar 
That bears me to the Summer Shore, 

To be with friends forever. 

William Goldsmith Bkown. 



CALL that, the Book of Job, aside from all theories about it, one of the grandest 
things ever written with pen. One feels, indeed, as if it were not Hebrew; such a 
noble universality, different from noble patriotism or sectarianism, reigns in it. A 
noble book ! all men's book ! It is our first, oldest statement of the never-ending 
problem — man's destiny — and God's way with him here in this earth. And all in such free, 
flowing outlines; grand in its sincerity, in its simplicity; in its epic melody, and repose of 
reconcilement. There is the seeing eye, the mildly understanding heart. So true every 
way ; true eyesight and vision for all things ; material things no less than spiritual ; the 
horse — "hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? — he "laughs at the shaking of the 


Such living likenesses were never since drawn. Sublime sorrow, sublime recon- 

ciliation ; oldest choral melody as of the heart of mankind ; so soft and great ; as the sum- 
mer midnight, as the world with its seas and stars ! There is nothing written, I think, in 
the Bible or out of it, of equal literary merit. 

Thomas Carlyle. 




BSJjH, why should the spirit of mortal he proud? 
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
°f?^" A flash of the lightning, a hreak of the wave, 
J4 He passes from life to his rest in the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
Be scattered around and together be laid ; 
And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 

The child that a mother attended and loved, 
The mother that infant's affection that proved, 
The husband that mother and infant that blessed, 
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose 

Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by ; 
And the memory of those that beloved her and 

Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the kiug that the sceptre hath borne, 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, 

The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the 

The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, 
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed, 
That wither away to let others succeed ; 
So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

For we are the same that our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, — 
We drink the same stream, -and we feel the same sun, 
And we run the same course that our fathers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think ; 
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would 

shrink ; 
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; 
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. 

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; 
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; 
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may 

come ; 
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. 

They died, — ay! they died: and we things that are 

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, 
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. 

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; 
And the smile and the tear and the song and the dirge 
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 

William Knox. 


?T in the stilly night, 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimmed and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken. 
Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 


When I remember all 

The friends so linked together 
I 've seen around me fall, 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed. 
Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Thomas Moore. 




|'ER waves that munmir ever nigh 

My window, opening toward the deep, 
*|* The light-house, with its wakeful eye, 
I Looks into mine, that shuts to sleep. 

Forever there, and still the same ; 

While many more besides me mark 
On various course, with various aim, 

That light that shineth in the dark. 

-S ■ ■ ■■ , '■;- , 

M ill 1*\> \V 'VV.',' iv,' ' ,o .'i'^!'"'f.V ' i J' jVS? * 

■The light-house, with its wakeful eye, 
Looks into mine, that shuts to sleep." 

I lose myself in idle dreams. 

And wake in smiles or sighs or fright, 
According to my vision's themes, 

And see it shining in the night. 

It draws my heart towards those who roam 
Unknown, nor to he known by me; 

I see it, and am glad at home, 
They see it, and are safe at sea. 

Sarah Hammond Palfrey. 



*HE faithful helm commands the keel, 
From port to port fair breezes blow; 
But the ship must sail the convex sea, 
Nor may she straighter go. 

So, man to man ; in fair accord. 
On thought and will the winds may wait; 

But the world will bend the passing word, 
Though its shortest course be straight. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be ; 
The ship that holds the straightest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 

John Boyle O'Reilly. 




(.^ppArR .is the dawn of the fairest clay. 
lt*\ Sad as the evening's tender gray, 
X By the latest lustre of sunset kissed, 
I That wavers and wanes through an amber 
| mist — 

There cometh a dream of the past to me, 
On the desert sands, by the autumn sea. 

That shine with an angel's ruth on me, — 
A hopeless waif, by the autumn sea. 

The wings of the ghostly beach-birds gleam 
Through the shimmering surf, and the curlew's scream 
Falls faintly shrill from the darkening height, 
The first weird sigh on the lips of Night 

"All heaven is wrapped in a mvstic veil 
And the face of the ocean is dim and pale." 

All heaven is wrapped in a mystic veil, 
And the face of the ocean is dim and pale, 
And there rises a wind from the chill northwest, 
That seemeth the wail of a soul's unrest, 
As the twilight falls, and the vapors flee 
Far over the wastes of the autumn sea. 

A single ship through the gloaming glides, 
Upborne on the swell of the seaward tides; 
And above the gleam of her topmost spar 
Are the virgin eyes of the vesper star 

Breathes low through the sedge and the blasted tree, 
With a murmur of doom, by the autumn sea. 

Oh, sky-enshadowed and yearning main, 
Your gloom but deepens this human pain ; 
Those waves seem big with a nameless care, 
That sky is a type of the heart's despair, 
As I linger and muse by the sombre lea, 
And the night-shades close on the autumn sea. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



rL day the stormy wind has blown 
From off the dark and rainy sea; 

No bird has past the window flown, 

The only song has been the moan 
The wind made in the willow-tree. 

This is the summer's burial-time: 

She died when dropped the earliest leaves; 
And, cold upon her rosy prime, 
Fell down the autumn's frosty rime ; 
Yet I am not as one that grieves, — 

Tor well I know o'er sunny seas 

The bluebird waits for April skies; 
And at the roots of forest trees 
The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease, 
And violets hide their azure eyes. 

O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown 

Beside some golden summer's bier, — 
Take heart! Thy birds are only flown, 
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown. 
To greet thee in the immortal year! 

Edna Dean Proctor. 




gIME rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore 
Who danced our infancy upon their knee, 
7 *fF~ And told our marveling bo} r hood legends store 
J4 Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or 

How are they blotted from the things that be ! 

How few, all weak and withered of their force, 

Wait, on the verge of dark eternity, 
Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, 
To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his cease- 
less course. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

"When stars are in the quiet skies, 
Then most I pine for thee." 


5HEN stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea. 
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, 

Are stillest when they shine ; 
Mine earthly love lies hushed in light 

Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angels keep 

Familiar watch o'er men. 
When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep 

Sweet spirit, meet me then ; 

There is aD hour when holy dreams 

Through slumber fairest glide, 
And in that mystic hour it seems 

Thou should'st be by my side. 

My thoughts of thee too sacred are 
For daylight's common beam ; 
I can but know thee as my star, 

My angel and my dream ! 
When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 
As stars look on the sea. 

Edward Bui/wer Lttton. 




|h, there be souls none understand, 
Like clouds, they cannot touch the laud, 
Drive as they may by held or town. 
Then we look wise at this, and frown, 
And we cry "Fool! " and cry "Take hold 
Of earth, and fashion gods of gold! " 

Unanchored ships, that blow and blow, 

Sail to aud fro, and then go down 

In unknown seas that none shall know, 

Without oue ripple of renown; 
Poor drifting dreamers, sailing by, 
That seem to only live to die. 

Call these not fools ; the test of worth 
Is not the hold you have of earth ; 
Lo, there be gentlest souls, sea blown, 
That know not any harbor known; 
And it may be the reason is 
They touch on fairer shores than this. 

Joaquin Miller. 



|0 you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the 
The linnet, and thrush say " I love, and I love! " 
In the winter they 're silent, the wind is so 
strong ; 
What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
But green leaves, and blossoms, aud sunny warm 

And singing and loving — all come back together. 
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, 
" I love my Love, and my Love loves me." 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

" Do you ask what the birds say? ' 



pfAIB. are the flowers and the children, but their Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feel- 
Hl subtle suggestion is fairer ; ing; 

Bare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns 

clasps it is rarer; the revealing. 

'Sweet the exultance of sons', but the strain that . , , . , . 

precedes it is sweeter? Great are the . s y mbols ° f bem «' but tbat which 1S sym ~ 
And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning; boled is greater; ^ 

out-mastered the mete. Vast tbe create and beheld ' but vaster the lnwal ' d Cre " 


Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift 

growing ; stands the giving ; 

Never a river that flows, but a majesty sceptres the Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive 

flowing ; nerves of receiving. 

Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than , . A , 

he did enfold him; S P ace is as " othm g to s P irit > the deed ls outdone b ^ 
Nor never a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer tne doing; 

hath foretold him. The heart of tbe wooer is warm ' but warmer the heart 

of the wooing ; 

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from 

and hidden ; the heights where those shine. 

Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the es- 
is bidden ; sence of life is divine. 

Bichard Bealf. 




gpERE, in my gnng five-lit chamber, 
Sit I alone ; 
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember 
Days long agone. 

Saddening it is when the night has descended, 

Thus to sit here, 
Pensively musing on episodes ended 

Many a year. 

'Tis but a wraith of love ; yet I linger, 

(Thus passion errs,) 
Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger — 

Once it was hers. 

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, 

Here, in this room, 
Save I, who, weaiy, and half broken-hearted, 

Sit in the gloom. 

"Saddening it is when the night has descended, 
Thus to sit here, 
Pensively musing on episodes ended 
Many a year." 

Still in my visions a golden-haired glory 

Flits to and fro ; 
She whom I loved— but 'tis just the old story: 

Dead, long ago. 

Loud 'gainst the window the winter wind dashes, 

Dreary and cold ; 
Over the floor the red fire-light flashes, 

Just as of old. 


Just as of old — but the embers are scattered, Time and death, sooner or later, must sunder 

Whose ruddy blaze Holiest ties. . 

Flashed o'er the floor where the fairy feet pattered 

In other days! Years have rolled by; I am wiser and older — 

Wiser, but yet 

Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing, Not till my heart and my feelings grow colder, 

Melted away ; Can I forget. 

Often these walls have re-echoed her singing, 

Now hushed for aye ! So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, 

Sit I alone ; 

Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I Alicl > as 1 g aze in the coals, I remember 
wonder? Days long agone ! 

Everything dies ! George Arnold. 



t^rjtESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless 
HH! ^y, air 

Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not 
lie, where ! 

While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood T ,.,.,., . , , , 

, . I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then 

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. „,-.„,',. 

But still the sun shines round me : the evening bird 

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's , T =>. ou ' , , , , ., , 

fl . . And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate, 

* jm. j ' «.■ i 4. ■* -U- « j.v. In the soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. 

A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the & & j 

m S ' Once more the gates are opened ; an infant group go 
I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant t 

more ' The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the 
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day sDriffhtlv shout 

1S ° ei ' Oh frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward 
Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now, strows 

There steps a weary one with pale and furrowed Its fair voun g buds unopened, with every wind that 

brow; blows! 

His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; go CQme from j^ g0 mtel% gide by sid6j 

He passes to his rest from a place that needs him Thestl and faint of spil . it , the meek, and men of 

not ' pride. 

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pil- 
In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour larg 

Of human strength and action, man's courage and his And lnts ° of uttle feet mark the dust along the way. 


I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the And some approach the threshold whose looks are 

golden day; blank with fear, 

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away, And some whose temples brighten with joy in draw- 
ing near. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth departing throws As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye 

A look of longing backward and sorrowfully goes ; Of Him, the sinless teacher, who came for us to die. 
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, 

Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and I mark the joy, the terror; yet these within my heart, 

fair. Can neither make the dread nor the longing to depart; 

And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and 
Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! lea, 

Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze ! I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 

William Cullen Bryant. 




i Y?( )W are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; 

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; 

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, 

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. 

Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled 

And now, instead of mountiug barbed steeds, 
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, 
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber 
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, 
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass : 
I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty, 
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph ; 

I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, 
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, 
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time 
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
And that so lamely and unfashionable, 
That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them; 
Why I, in this weak piping time of peace, 
Have no delight to pa»s away the time, 
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, 
And descant on mine own deformity ; 
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, 
To entertain these fair well-spoken days, 
I am determined to prove a villain, 
And hate the idle pleasures of these days. 

William Shakespeare. 
'"3— 9£— E n 


Sgfa 9 

Jjjg BABY sat on his mother's knee, 

On the golden morn of a summer's day, 
yfp^ Clapping his tiny hands in glee, 
J-l As he watched the shifting sunbeams play. 

He laid his head on his mother's breast 
And gazed in the dear face wistfully. 

A sunbeam glanced through the open door, 
With its shimmering web of atoms fine, 

And crept along on the sanded floor 
In a glittering, glimmering, golden line. 

The baby laughed in his wild delight, 
And clutched at the quivering golden band; 

But the sunbeam fled from his eager sight, 
And nought remained in the dimpled hand. 

For a cloud had swept o'er the summer sky, 
And gathered the beam to its bosom gray, 

And wrapped iu a mantle of sombre dye 
The glory and pride of the summer's day. 

Thus cheated sore in his eager quest, 
With a puzzled look that was sad to see, 

The cloud swept by, and the beam returned, 
But the weary child was slumbering now, 

And heeded it not, though it glowed and burned 
Like a crown of flame on his baby brow. 


And I thought, ah, babe, thou art not alone 
In thy bootless quest for a fleeting toy, 

For we all are babes, little wiser grown, 
In our chase for some idle and transient joy. 

We are grasping at sunbeams day by day, 
And get but our toil for our weary pains; 

For ever some cloudlet obscures the ray, 
And naught in the sordid grasp remains. 

But when the lures of our youth depart, 
And our empty strivings are all forgot, 

Then down in some nook of the peaceful heart 
The sunbeam glows when we seek it not. 

Egbert Phelps. 


. A 

|0 farewell to the little good you bear me, 
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! 
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
This many summers in a sea of glory. 
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 

At length broke under me, and now has left me, 
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ; 
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! 
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. 

William Shakespeare. 




.AS ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 

A dreary sea now flows between; 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 

Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

" Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 
A dreary sea now flows between." 

But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining, — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 


ISO be, or not to be, — that is the question : 
^-A^s Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
-SjjpP The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; 
A Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
f And by opposing, end them? — To die, — to 
sleep, — 
No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 't is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die ; — to sleep ; — 
To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — ay, there 's the rub ,- 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause ; there 's the respect 
That makes calamity of so long life : 
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 
The insolence of office and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unwortlry takes, 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; 
But that the dread of something after death, — 
The undiscovered country, from whose bourne 
No traveler returns, — puzzles the will ; 
And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of! 
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
With this regard, their currents turn a-wry, 
And lose the name of action. 

William Shakespeare. 

~ J **svifZ^^Zfristr' 


ISO here hath been dawning 
Up Another blue day; 
5£ Think wilt thou let it 
Slip useless away. 

Out of Eternity 

This new Day is born; 
Into Eternity 

At night will return. 

Behold it aforetime 

No eye ever did ; 
So soon it forever 

From all eyes is hid. 

Here hath been dawning 

Another blue day; 
Think wilt thou let it 

Slip useless away. 

Thomas Carltxe. 




STREAM, descending to the sea, 
Thy mossy banks between, 

The flowerets blow, the grasses grow, 
Thy leafy trees are green. 

In garden plots the children play, 
The fields the laborers till, 

And houses stand on either hand, 
And thou descendest still. 

Strong purposes our minds possess, 

Our hearts affections fill; 
We toil and earn, we seek and learn 

And thou descendest still. 

O end to which our currents tend, 

Inevitable sea 
To which we flow! what do we know, 

What shall we guess of thee? 

" O stream, descending to the sea, 
Thy mossy banks between, 

The flowerets blow, the grasses grow, 
Thy leafy trees are green." 

O life, descending into death, 
Our waking eyes behold; 

Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 
Companions young and old. 

A roar we hear upon thy shore, 

As we our course fulfill ; 
Scarce we divine a sun will shine 

And be above us still. 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 


~4» ^S>?-£ ,$». 

; Over the river on the hill 
Lieth a village white and still." 


EE the river on the hill 
! Lieth a village white and still ; 
/ §T' All around it the forest trees 
J4, Shiver and whisper in the hreeze ; 
Over it sailing shadows go 
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow; 
And mountain grasses, low and sweet, 
Grow iu the middle of every street. 

Over the river under the hill 
Another village lieth still ; 
There I see in the cooling night 
Twinkling stars of household light, 
Fires that gleam from smithy's door, 
Mists that curl on the river's shore ; 
And ill the road no grasses grow, 
For the wheals that hasten to and fro. 




In that village on the hill 

Never is sound of smithy or mill ; 

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers, 

Never a clock to tell the hours ; 

The marble doors are always shut; 

You may not enter at hall or hut. 

' Over the river under the hill 
Another village lieth still." 

All the village lie asleep, 
Never a grain to sow or reap ; 
Never in dreams to moan or sigh — 
Silent, and idle, and low, they lie. 

In that village under the hill, 
When the night is starry and still, 
Many a weary soul in prayer 
Looks to the other village there, 
And weeping and sighing, longs to go 
Up to that home from this below; 
Longs to sleep by the forest wild, 
Whither have vanished wife and child, 
And heareth, praying, the answer fall, — 
" Patience: That village shall hold ye all! " 
Rose Terry Cooke. 


SAY, what is that thing called light, 

Which I must ne'er enjoy? 
What are the blessings of the sight? 

O tell your poor blind boy! 

You talk of wondrous things you see, 

You say the sun shines bright; 
I feel him warm, but how can he 

Or make it day or night? 

My day or night myself I make, 

Whene'er I sleep or play; 
And could I ever keep awake, 

With me 't were always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 

You mourn my hapless woe ; 
But sure with patience I can bear 

A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy; 
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 

Although a poor blind boy. 



|p HAVE had pla3 r mates, I have had companions, 
III In my days of childhood, in my joyful school - 

X days ; 

I All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me. I must not see her; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child- 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Eriend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, — 

How some they have died, and some they have left 

And some are taken from me : all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Charles Lamb. 




|0W sweet and solemn all alone, 
With reverent steps, from stone to stone, 
In a small village churchyard lying, 

O'er intervening flowers to move! 
And as we read the names unknown, 
Of young and old to judgment gon 

And hear in the calm air above, 
Time onward, softly flying, 

To meditate, in Christian love, 
Upon the dead and dying ! 

The friends we loved, long, long ago! 

Gliding across the sad retreat, 

How beautiful their phantom feet! 

What tenderness is in their eyes, 

Turned where the poor survivor lies 

'Mid monitory sanctities ! 

What years of vanished joys are fanned 

From one uplifting of that baud 

In its white stillness ! when the shade 

Doth glhnmeringly in sunshine fade 

"And as we read the names unknown, 
Of young and old, to judgment gone." 

Across the silence seems to go 

With dream-like motion wavering slow, 

And shrouded in their folds of snow, 

From our embrace, how dim appears 
This world's life through a mist of tears! 
Vain hopes! blind sorrows! needless fears! 
John Wilson (Christopher North) . 



TOUGH! we 're tired, my heart and I; 
We sit beside the headstone thus. 
And wish the name were carved for us ; 
The moss reprints more tenderly 
The hard types of the mason's knife, 
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life, 
With which we 're tired, my heart and I. 

You see we 're tired, my heart and I; 
We dealt with books, we trusted men. 
And in our own blood drenched the pen, 

As if such colors could not fly. 
We walked too straight for fortune's end, 
We loved too true to keep a friend ; 

At last we 're tired, my heart and I. 



How tired we feel, my heart and I ; 

We seem of no use iu the world ; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncurled 
About men's eyes indifferently; 

Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let 

You sleep; our tears are only wet; 
What do we here, my heart and I? 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I ; 
It was not thus in that old time 
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime 

To watch the sun set from the sky : 

" Dear Love, you 're looking tired," he said; 
I, smiling at him, shook my head; 

'Tis now we 're tired, my heart and I. 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I! 
Though now none takes me on his arm 
To fold me close and kiss me warm. 

Till each quick breath ends in a sigh 
Of happy languor. Now, alone 
We lean upon his graveyard stone, 

Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 

Tired out we are, my heart and I. 
Suppose the world brought diadems 
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 

Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. 
We scarcely care to look at even 
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 

We feel so tired, my heart and I. 

Yet, who complains? My heart and I? 
In this abundant earth no doubt 
Is little room for things worn out; 
Disdain them, break them, throw them by; 
And if before the days grew rough, 
We once were loved, then — well enough 
I think we 've fared, my heart and I. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


gE hasten to the dead : What seek ye there, 
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes 
Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear? 
O thou quick heart which pantest to possess 
All that anticipation feigneth fair! — 
Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess 
Whence thou didst come, and whither thou mayst go, 

And that which never yet was known wouldst know— 

Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press 

With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path, 

Seeking alike from happiness and woe 

A refuge in the cavern of gray death? 

O heart, and mind, and thoughts! What thing do you 

Hope to inherit in the grave below? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 




§|ER suffering ended with the day; 
Yet lived she at its close, 
?(?$\ And breathed the long, long night awa}- 
J4 In statue-like repose. 

- / e>°-*-°-°'*- '5^-- 

But when the sun, in all his state, 

Illumed the eastern skies, 
She passed through glory's morning-gate, 

And walked in Paradise ! 

James Aldrich. 


HE melanchol3 r days are come, the saddest of the 

X Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and mead- 
1 ows brown and sear. 

1 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn 
leaves lie dead ; 
'They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs 

the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the 
gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 

Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of 

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good 
of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold Novem- 
ber rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- 
mer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 


And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn 
beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 
the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone from up- 
land, glade, and gleu. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such 
days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 
home ; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all 
the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill; 

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
grance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream 
no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my 

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests 

cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 

brief : 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend 

of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 


William Cullen Bryant. 




., MARY, go and call the cattle home, 
'iB And call the cattle home, 

& And call the cattle home, 

Ahove the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
Anions; the stakes of Dee? " 

1 And call the cattle home. 
Across the sands of Dee.' 

Across the sands of Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
And all alone went she. 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,- 
The cruel, crawling foam, 
The cruel, hungry foam, — 

The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as e3'e could see; 
The Winding mist came down and hid the land 
And never home came she. 

" They rowed her in across the rolling foam. 

"O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, — 
A tress of golden hair, 
Of drowned maiden's hair, — 

To her grave beside the sea." 

To her grave beside the sea ; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,. 
Across the sands of Dee. 

Charles Kingslet. 

pB that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. 
H Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure 
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. 

Where sorrow 's held intrusive and turned out, 
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, 
Nor aught that dignifies humanity. 




fl|W||Y mother! when I learned that thou wast 
lsf*s dead, 

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 

Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 

Perhaps thou gavest me, though uufelt, a kiss • 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— 
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone 

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting words shall pass my lips no more! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wished, I long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled, 
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows speut, 
I learned at last submission to my lot, 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

William Cowper. 



E more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Bashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care : 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young and so fair! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements; 
Whilst the wave constautly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly. 
Loviug, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully, 
Geutly and humanly; 
Not of the stains of her, 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure wom'anly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her-mutiny 
Bash and undutiful; 

Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father? 

Who was her mother? 

Had she a sister? 

Had she a brother? 

Or was there a dearer one 

Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
O, it was pitiful! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed : 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river. 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver; 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river : 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery 
Swift to be hurled, — 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world! 




In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran, — 
Over the brink of it, 
Picture it, — think of it, 
Dissolute man! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, — kindly, — 
Smooth and compose them; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 
Into her rest, 
Cross her hands humbly 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

Thomas Hood. 



JMlTTliE shoes and stockings ! 

What a tale ye speak, 
Of the swollen eyelid, 

And the tear- wet cheek; 
Of the nightly vigil, 

And the daily prayer; 
Of the buried darling, 

Present everywhere ! 

Brightly plaided stockings 

Of the finest wool ; 
Rounded feet, and dainty, 

Each a stocking full; 
Tiny shoes of crimson, 

Shoes that nevermore 
Will awaken echoes 

From the toy-strewn floor. 

Not the wealth of Indies 
Could your worth eclipse. 

Priceless little treasures, 
Pressed to whitened lips ; 

As the mother nurses, 
From the world apart, 

Leaning on the arrow 
That has pierced her heart. 

Head of flaxen ringlets ; 

Eyes of heaven's blue ; 
Parted mouth — a rosebud — 

Pearls just peeping through; 
Soft arms, softly twining 

Round her neck at eve ; — 
Little shoes and stockings, 

These the dreams ye weave. 

Weave her yet another, 

Of the world of bliss ; — 
Let the stricken mother 

Turn away from this ; 
Bid her dream believing 

Little feet await, 
Watching for her passing 

Through the pearly gate. 



|f HEN we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow,- 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 



They name thee before me, 

A kuell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me, — 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met, — . 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 

Lord Byeon. 


|HE cottage was a thatched one, the outside old 
and mean, 

But all within that little cot was wondrous neat 
« and clean ; 

The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling 

As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her 

child : 
A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown 

It was a collier's wife and child — ■ they called him 
little Jim. 

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but O ! I am so dry, 
Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't 

you cry." 
With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his 

He smiled to thank her as he took each little, tiny sip. 

" Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good- 
night to him, 

And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little 

She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved 
so dear, 

'■The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean." 

And oh ! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her Had uttered the last words she mighteverhope to hear : 
cheek, The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard 

As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a 

afraid to speak, 

Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her 

For she had all a mother's heart — had that poor col- 
lier's wife. 

With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the suffer- 
er's bed, 

And prays that He would spare her boy, and take her- 
self instead. 

She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the 

words from him, 
"Mother, the angels do so smile, aud beckon little Jim, 


He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, 
He took the candle in his hand and walked towards 

the bed ; 
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he 'd fain 

And see, his wife has joined him — the stricken couple 

kneel : 
With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask 

of Him, 
In heaven, once more, to meet again their own poor 

little Jim. 




jj 'M sittin' on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May mornin' long ago, 

When first you were my bride; 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 

And the little church stands near — 
The church where we were wed, Mary, 

I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest — 
For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep* 

With your baby on your breast. 

'Where we sat side by side." 

The place is little changed, Mary — 

The day is bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And your breath, warm on my cheek; 
And I still keep list'nin' for the words 

You nevermore will speak. 

I 'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no now friends 5 
But, O, they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all I had, Mary, 

My blessin' and my pride ; 
There 's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 



TTours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And my arm's youug strength was gone ; 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you cannot hear me now- 

I 'm biddin' you a long farewell, 

My Mary, kind and true ! 
But I '11 not forget you, darling, 

In the land I' in goin' to; 
They say there 's bread and work for all, 

And the sun shines always there — 
But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair! 

'T is but a step down yonder lane, 
And the little church stands near." 

I thank you for the patient smile, 

When your heart was fit to break — 
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, 

And J' ou hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore — 
O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I '11 sit and shut my eyes, 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies; 
And I '11 think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the spriugiu' corn, and the bright May morn 
When first } r ou were my bride. 

Lady Dufferin. 

|HE loves and animosities of youth, where are they? Swept away like the camps 
that had been pitched in the sandy bed of the river. 




flGH to a grave that was newly made, 
Leaned a sexton old ou his earth-woru spade ; 
His work was done, and he paused to wait 
The funeral train at the open gate. 
A relic of bygone days was he, 
And his locks were as white as the foamy sea ; 
And these words came from his lips so thin : 
" I gather them in — I gather them in— 
Gather — gather — I gather them in. 

"I gather them in; for man and boy, 

Year after year of grief and joy, 

I 've builded the houses that lie around 

In every nook of this burial-ground. 

Mother and daughter, father and son, 

Come to my solitude one by oue ; 

But come they stranger or come they kin, 

I gather them in — I gather them in. 

"Many are with me, yet i 'm alone; 

I 'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne 

On a monument slab of marble cold — 

My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, 

Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all! 

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, 

I gather them in — I gather them in. 

"I gather them in, and their final rest 

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast! " 

And the sexton ceased as the funeral train 

Wound mutely over that solemn plain; 

And I said to myself : "When time is told, 

A mightier voice than that sexton's old 

Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din : 

"I gather them in — I gather them in — 

Gather — gather — gather them in! " 

Park Benjamin. 



St LOVE it — I love it, and who shall dare 
H!| To chide me for loving that old arm-chair! 
A I've treasured it long as a sainted prize — 
Jl I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with 
1 sighs ; 

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart, 
Not a tie will break, not a liuk will start. 
Would you learn the spell? a mother sat there; 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat with listening ear; 

And gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide, 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day, 

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray, 

And I almost worshiped her when she smiled 

And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 

Years rolled on, but the last one sped— 

My idol was shattered — my earth-star fled : 

I learnt how much the heart can bear, 

When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 
'Twas there she nursed me — 'twas there she died, 
And memory flowed with lava tide — 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
While the scalding tears run down my cheek. 
But I love it — I love it, and cannot tear 
My soul from my mother's old arm chair. 

Eliza Cook. 



jgHEN chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening, as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man whose aged step 

Seemed weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrowed o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

" Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? ' 

Began the reverend sage ; 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful ]3leasures rage? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 



" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Outspreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds lahor to support 
A haughty lordling"s pride, — 
I 've seen yon weary winter sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And every time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

" O man, while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time! 
Misspending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn; 
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

" Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported in his right; 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, O ill-matched pair! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

" A few seem favorites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, O, what crowds in every land 

Are wretched and forlorn ! 
Through weary life this lesson learn, — 

That man was made to mourn. 

" Many and sharp the numerous ills, 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 

And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn! 

"See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

" If I 'm designed yon lordliug's slave, 

By Nature's law designed, — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not. why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn? 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn? 

" Yet let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of humankind 

Is surely not the last! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

" O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blows, 

From pomp and pleasure torn; 
But O, a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! " 

Robert Burns. 


VflYlIREE fishers went sailing out into the west, 
i„™-3 Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
JL Each thought on the woman who loved him the 
(' best, 

And the children stood watching them out of 
the town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; 
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the 

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and 

But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 

And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands 

For those who will never come home to the town; 

For men must work, and women must weep, 

And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep; 

And good-by to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kingsley. 




i ,^jrSlTY the sorrows of a poor old man ! 
l's*±=£ Whose trembling limbs have borne him to 
Mf * your door, 

I Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 

O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your 

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, 
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years ; 

And many a furrow in my grief- worn cheek 
Has been the channel to a stream of tears. 

"Pity the sorrows of a poor old man." 

Yon house, erected on the rising ground, 
With tempting aspect drew me from nry road 

For plenty there a residence has found, 
And grandeur a magnilicent abode. 

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) 
Here craving for a morsel of their bread, 

A pampered menial forced me from the door, 
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed. 

O, take me to your hospitable home, 
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! 

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, 
For I am poor and miserably old. 

Should I reveal the source of every grief, 
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, 

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, 
And tears of pity could not be repressed. 

Heaven sends misfortunes — why should we repine? 

'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see : 
And your condition may be soon like mine, 

The child of sorrow and of misery. 

A little farm was my paternal lot, 

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; 
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; 

My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. 

My daughter, — once the comfort of my age ! 

Lured by a villain from her native home, 
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage, 

And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. 

My tender wife, — sweet soother of my care! — 
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, 

Fell, — lingering fell, a victim to despair, 
And left the world to wretchedness and me. 

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ! 
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, 
O, give relief, and heaven will bless your store. 

Thomas Moss. 



[In the Irish Famine of '47.] 

f AS ever sorrow like to our sorrow, 
O God above? 
k ;■' Will our night never change into a morrow 


Of joy and love? 
A deadly gloom is on us, waking, sleeping, 

Like the darkness at noontide 
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping 

By the Crucified. 

Before us die our brothers of starvation; 

Around us cries of famine and despair; 
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation — 

Where, O where? 

If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, 
They are weeping, we are sure. 

At the litanies of human groans ascending 
From the crushed hearts of the poor. 

When the human rest in love upon the human 

All grief is light ; 
But who beuds one kind glance to illumine 

Our life-long night? 
The air around is ringing with their laughter — 

God lias only made the rich to smile ; 
But we in rags and want and woe — we follow after, 

Weeping the while. 



We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness, 

Nor the proud heart of youth, free and 
brave ; 
A deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness 

Is our life's journey to the grave; 
Day by day we lower sink and lower, 

Till the God-like soul within 
Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power 

Of poverty and sin. 

We must toil though the light of life is burning, 

Oh, how dim ! 
We must toil on our sick-bed, feebly turning 

Our eyes to Him 
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying, 

With scarce-moved breath, 
While the paler hands uplifted are, and praying, 
us death! " 
Lady Wilde (Speranza). 



HAVE just been learning the lesson of life, 

The sad, sad lesson of loving, 
And all of its power for pleasure and pain 

Been slowly, sadly proving ; 
And all that is left of the bright, bright dream, 

With its thousand brilliant phases, 
Is a handful of dust in a coffin hid — 

A coffin under the daisies ; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

And thus forever throughout the world 

Is love a sorrow proving; 
There 's many a sad, sad thing in life, 

But the saddest of all is loving. 
Life often divides far wider than death ; 

Stern fortune the high wall raises ; 

But better far than two hearts estranged 
Is a low grave starred with daisies ; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

And so I am glad that we lived as we did, 

Through the summer of love together, 
And that one of us, wearied, lay down to rest, 

Ere the coming of winter weather; 
For the sadness of love is love grown cold, 

And 'tis one of its surest phases ; 
So I bless my God, with a breaking heart, 

For that grave enstarred with daisies; 
The beautiful, beautiful daisies, 
The snowy, snowy daisies. 

Hattie Tyng Griswold. 


^YJYlTEKE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 
sills The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
.-i|j>\ For hjg country he sighed, when at twilight re- 
J4 pairing 

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 

"Sad is my fate! " said the heart-broken stranger; 

"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, 
But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 

A home and a country remain not to me, 
Never again, in the green sunny bowers, 
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet 

Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, 

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 

" Erin, my country I though sad and forsaken, 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 

But. alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
And sigh ior the friends who can meet me no more! 

O cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
In a mansion of peace, — where no perils can chase me? 
Never again shall my brothers embrace me? 
They died to defend me or live to deplore! 

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood? 

Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? 
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ; 

And where is the bosom friend dearer than all? 
O, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, 

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 

"Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; 

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 

Green be thy fields. — sweetest isle of the ocean! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devo- 
tion, — 
Erin mavournin, — Erin go bragh! " 

Thomas Campbell. 




TIEN the grass shall cover me, 
Head to foot where I am lying; 
When not any wind that hlows, 
Summer hlooms nor winter snows, 
Shall awake me to your sighing; 
Close above me as you pass, 
You will say, "How kind she was," 
You will say, "How true she was," 
"When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Holden close to Earth's warm bosom; 
While I laugh, or weep or sing 
Nevermore for anything ; 
You will And in blade and blossom, 

Sweet, small voices, odorous, 
Tender pleaders in my cause, 
That shall speak me as I was — 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me ! 
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow 
Very patient, I can wait — 
Knowing that or soon or late, 
There will dawn a clearer morrow ; 
When your heart will moan, "Alas! 
Now I know how true she was; 
Now I know how dear she was," 
When the grass grows over me ! 




' He giveth his beloved sleep." — Psalm cxxvi. 

rYE all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 
Among the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is, 
For gift or grace, surpassing this, — 
" He giveth his beloved sleep? " 

What would we give to our beloved? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved, — 
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, — 
The patriot's voice, to teach and. rouse, — 
The monarch's crown, to light the brows? 
"He giveth his beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved? 
A little faith, all undisproved, — 
A little dust to overweep, 
And bitter memories, to make . 
The whole earth blasted for our sake, 
"He giveth his beloved sleep." 

" Sleep soft, beloved! " we sometimes say, 

But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep ; 

But never doleful dream agaii. 
Shall break the happy slumber when 
" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

O earth, so full of dreary noise ! 
O men, with wailing in your voice ! 
O delved gold the wallers heap ! 
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! 
God strikes a silence through you all. 
And "giveth his beloved sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
His cloud above it saileth still. 
Though on its slope men sow and reap; 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 
"He giveth his beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart, that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 
That sees through tears the mummers leap, 
Would now its wearied vision close. 
Would childlike on his love repose 
Who " giveth his beloved sleep." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



>TTH fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt! " 

"Work! work! work! 
While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — work ! 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It 's oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk. 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work! 



"Work — work — work ! 

Till the brain begins to swim ! 
Work— work — work ! 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in my dream ! 

Oh ! men with sisters dear ! 

Oh ! men with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you 're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives I 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt ! 

"But why do I talk of death, 

That phantom of grisly bone? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fast I keep : 
O God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

"Work — work— work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags : 
A shattered roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank,' my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

"Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime ; 
"Work — work — work ! 

As prisoners work for crime! 
Band, and gusset, and seam. 

Seam, and gusset, and baud. 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand ! 

"Work — work — work ! 

In the dull December light; 
And work — work — work! 

When the weather is clear and bright: 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs. 

And twit me with the Spring. 

"Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet; 

With the sky above my head, 
And the grass beneath my feet : 

For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want, 

And the walk that costs a meal. 

"Oh ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite, however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief I 
A little weeping would ease my heart 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread!" 

"A wall so blank, my shadow I thank 
For sometimes falling there." 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread ; 
Stitch — stitch — stitch I 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch !— 
Would that its tone could reach the rich !— 

She sung this "Song of the Shirt!" 

Thomas Hood. 




|URL that banner, for 'tis weary ; 
Bound its staff 'tis drooping dreary, 

Furl it, fold it, it is best ; 
For there 's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it: 

Furl it, hide it — let it rest. 

Take that banner down, 'tis tattered! 
Broken is its shaft and shattered, 
And the valiant host are scattered, 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it! 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
Hard that those that once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that banner — furl it sadly — 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave — 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
'Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their gravel 


Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that banner — it is trailing! 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For though conquered, they adore it! 
Love the cold dead hands that bore it! 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it! 
But, oh! wildly they deplore it, 
Now, who furl and fold it so. 

Furl that banner! True, 'tis gory, 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, 
And 'twill live in song and story 

Though its folds are in the dust : 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now we must. 

Furl that banner, softly, slowly; 
Treat it gently — it is holy. 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — unfold it never — 
Let it droop there furled forever, 

For its people's hopes are dead ! 

Abeam T. Ryan. 


HTF. sitting with this little worn-out shoe 
1S1 And scarlet stocking lying 1 on mv knee. 

¥1 knew the little feet had pattered through 
The pearl-set gates that lie 'tvvixt Heaven and 
I could be reconciled and happy too, 
And look with glad eyes toward the jasper sea. 

If in the morning, when the song of birds 
Reminds me of a music far more sweet, 

I listen for his pretty, broken words, 
And for the music of his dimpled feet, 

I could be almost happy, though I heard 
No answer, and but saw his vacant seat. 

I could be glad if, when the day is done, 
And all its cares and heartaches laid away, 

I could look westward to the hidden sun. 
And, with a heart full of sweet yearnings, say— 

"To-night I 'm nearer to my little one 
By just the travel of a single day." 

If I could know those little feet were shod 
In sandals wrought of light in better lands, 

And that the foot-prints of a tender God 
Ran side by side with him, in golden sands, 

I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod, 
Since Benny was in wiser, safer hands. 

If he were dead, I would not sit to-day 
And stain with tears the wee sock on my knee; 

I would not kiss the tiny shoe and say — 
" Bring back again my little boy to me ! " 

I would be patient, knowing 't was God's way, 
And wait to meet him o'er death's silent sea. 

But oh ! to know the feet, once pure and white, 
The haunts of vice had boldly ventured in ! 

The hands that should have battled for the right 
Had been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin! 

And should he knock at Heaven's gate to-night, 
To fear my boy could hardly enter in ! 

May Riley Smith. 

||S the tree is fertilized by its own broken 
its own decay, so is the soul of man 

branches and fallen leaves, and grows out of 
ripened out of broken hopes and blighted 




gNTO a ward of the whitewashed walls, 

Where the dead and dying lay, 
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, 

Somebody's Darling was borne one day — 
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, 

Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, 
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, 

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, 
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; 

Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 
Somebody's Darling is dying now. 

Somebody's hand had rested there, — 
Was it a mother's soft and white? 

And have the lips of a sister fair 
Been baptized in those waves of light? 

God knows best; he has somebody's love; 

Somebody's heart enshrined him there ; 
Somebody wafted his name above, 

Night and morn on the wings of prayer. 
Somebody wept when he marched away, 

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, 

Somebody clung to his parting hand. 


' Somebody's darling slumbers here.' 

Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow 
Brush all the wandering waves of gold. 

Cross his hands on his bosom now, 
Somebody's Darting is still and cold. 

Kiss him once for somebody's sake, 
Murmur a prayer soft and low ; 

One bright curl from its fair mates take, 
They were somebody's pride, you know : 

Somebody's waiting and watching for him — 

Yearning to hold him again to the heart; 
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, 

And the smiling childlike lips apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead, 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; 
Carve on the wooden slab at his head, — 

"Somebody's Darling slumbers here." 

Makie R. Lacoste. 


HEN thou, in all thy loveliness, 
Sweet Eosalie, wert mine, 
Of Earth's one more, of Heaven's one less. 
I counted things divine. 

But since the lilies o'er thy breast 
Out of the sweetness spring, 

Of love's delight I miss the rest 
And keep alone the sting. 

Till now I reckon things divine 

Not as I did before ; 
Earth's share has dwindled down to mine, 

And Heaven has all the more. 

William C. Richards. 




f" In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead i child, the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, 
sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the 
spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. ' You don't know what it is, do you, my dear? ' 'said he, 
and added, ' We don't, either.' "J 

^fl Y?E know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be ; 

Yet, O, how dear it is to us, this life we live and 

Then might they say — these vanished ones — and 
blessed is the thought, 

"So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may 
show you naught; 

We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death — 

Ye caunot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." 

and still; 

*$$*' The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so 
If pale and chill ; 

The lids that will not lift again, though we 
may call and call ; 
The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. 

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart 
pain ; 

This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again ; 

We know not to what other sphere the loved who The child who enters life comes not with knowledge 
leave us go, or intent, 

Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do So those who enter death must go as little children 
not know. sent. 

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they Nothing is known. But I believe that God is over- 
should come this day — ^ead ' 

Should come and ask us, " What is life? " not one of Aud as life is t0 the liviu S' so death is t0 the dead - 
us could say. Makit Mapes Dodge. 

° c-eXP V^a- ^O-^ ° — ■ 


LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane. 
My life's bright dream, and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision, 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst mark my story, 

At even told,— 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 


Thy heart was a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane. 

But fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of. the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep ; 
May their bloom in beauty vying 

Never wane, 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 

Phillip Pendleton Cooke. 


LITTLE dreaming, such as mothers know; 

A little lingering over dainty things ; 
A happy heart, wherein hope all aglow 

Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings, 
And that is all. 

A little clasping to her yearning breast; 
A little musiug over future years ; 

A heart that prays : "Dear Lord, thou knowest best- 
But spare my flower life's bitterest rain of tears "- 
And that is all. 



A little spirit speeding through the night; 

A little home grown lonely, dark and chill; 
A sad heart groping blindly for the light; 

A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill — 
And that is all. 

A little gathering of life's broken thread ; 
A little patience keeping back the tears ; 
A heart that sings, " Thy darling is not dead, 
God keeps her safe through his eternal years " - 
And that is all. 
'3S"-£ »?■ 


fessed ; 

KNEW a boy, whose infant feet had trod 

Upon the blossoms of some seven springs, 

And when the eighth came round ; and called him 


To gambol in the sun, he turned away 
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die! 

'Twas night — he summoned his accustomed friends, 
And on this wise bestowed his last bequest : — 

" Mother! I'm dying now; — 
There is deep suffocation in my breast, 
As if some heavy hand my bosom piv 

And on my brow 

" I feel the cold sweat stand; 
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath 
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death? 
Mother ! your hand — 

" Here — lay it on my wrist, 
And place the other thus, beneath my head, 
And say, sweet mother ! — say, when I am dead, 

Shall I be missed? 

" Never beside your knee 
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray, 
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay 

You taught to me ! 

"Oh! at the time of prayer, 
When you look round and see a vacant seat, 
You will not wait then for my coming feet — 

You '11 miss me there ! — 

" Father ! I'm going home ! 
To the good home you speak of, that blest land 
Where it is one bright summer always, and 

Storms do not come. 

"I must be happy then : 
From pain and death you say I shall be free — 
That sickness never enters there, and we 

Shall meet again! " — 

"Brother! the little spot 
I used to call my garden, where long hours 
We 've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers, 

Forget it not! 

" Plant there some box or pine ■ — 
Something that lives in winter, and will be 
A verdant offering to my memory, 

And call it mine! " 

"Sister! my young rose-tree — 
That all the spring has been my pleasant care, 
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair, 

I give it thee. 

"And when its roses bloom, 
I shall be gone away — my short life done! 
But will you not bestow a single one 

Upon my tomb? " 

"Now, mother, sing the tune 
You sang last night — I'm weary and must sleep ! 
Who was it called my name? — Nay, do not weep, 

You '11 all come soon ! " 

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings — 
Aud that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale, 
Lay on his couch asleep ! The gentle air 
Came through the open window, freighted with 
The savory odors of the early spring. 
He breathed it not ! The laugh of passers-by 
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune, 
But it marred not his slumbers — He was dead! 


CE at the Angelus 

(Ere I was dead), 
Angels all glorious, 

Came to my bed ; — 
Angels in blue and white, 

Crowned on the Head. 

One was the Friend I left 
Stark in the snow ; 

One was the Wife that died 
Long — long ago ; 

One was the Love I lost — 
How coidd she know? 

One had my Mother's eyes, 

Wistful aud mild ; 
One had my Father's face; 

One was a Child ; 
All of them bent to me, — 

Bent down aud smiled. 

Austin Dobson. 




'lyr^IS sad yet sweet to listen to the south-wind's Like the changeful gleams of April, they followed 

J»| gentle swell, every tear : 

&&$• And think we hear the music our childhood They have passed— like hopes — away, and their love- 

T knew so well; liness has fled ; 

To gaze out on the even, and the boundless fields of air, Oh! many a heart is mourning that they are with the 
And feel again our boyhood's wish to roam like angels dead. 

there. Like the brightest buds of summer they have fallen 

with the stem ; 

There are mauy dreams of gladness that cling around y e t, oh, it is a lovely death to fade from earth like 

the past, them! 

And from the tomb of feeling old thoughts come 

thron<nne fast- -^ nc * y et tne bought * s saddening to muse on such as 

The forms we loved so dearly iu the happy days now they, 

, one And feel that all the beautiful are passiug fast away ; 

The beautiful and lovely, so fair to look upon. That tne falr ones wholn vve love S row t0 each loviu S 


Those bright and gentle maidens, who seemed so Like the tendril of the clinging vine, then perish 

formed for bliss, where they rest. ■ 

Too glorious and too heavenly for such a world as 

this — And we can but think of these, in the soft and gentle 

Whose dark, soft eyes seemed swimming in a sea of Spring, 

liquid light, When the trees are waving o'er us, aud the flowers are 

And whose locks of gold were streaming o'er brows so blossoming ; 

sunny bright; And we know that Winter 's coming with his cold and 

stormy sky, 
Whose smiles were like the sunshine in the spring- And the glorious beauty round us is budding but to 

time of the year— die ! 

George D. Prentice. 



' TTYuIEY made her a grave, too cold and damp 
b-^S For a heart so warm and true; 
/<j,j>\ A n( ] sne ' s gone to the Lake of the Dismal 
J4. Swamp 

Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, 
She paddles her white canoe!" 

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 

And her paddle I soon shall hear; 
Long and loving our life shall be, 
And I '11 hide the maid in a cypress tree, 

When the footstep of death is near!" 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — 

His path was rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through mauy a fen, where the serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before ! 

And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, 
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
"Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear?" 

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface played— 
"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light " 
Aud the dim shore echoed, for many a night, 

The name of the death-cold maid! 

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, 

Which carried him off from shore; 
Far, far he followed the meteor spark, 
The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 
And the boat returned no more. 

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp, 
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp, 

And paddle their white canoe ! 

Thomas Moore, 




|ALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! 
It grieves me sair to see tbee weipe ; 
If tboust be silent, Ise be glad, 
Thy maining maks m} r heart ful sad. 
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy ! 
Thy father breides me great annoy. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

My babe and I '11 together live, 

He '11 comfort me when cares doe grieve; 

My babe and I right saft will ly, 

And quite forgeit man's cruelty. 

Balow, etc. 

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth 
That ever kist a woman's mouth ! 

"When he began to court my luve, 
And with his sugred words to muve, 
His faynings fals and flattering cheire 
To me that time did not appeire : 
But now I see, most cruell hee, 
Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 
Balow, etc. 

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile, 
And when thou wakest, sweitly smile : 
But smile not, as thy father did, 
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! 
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, 
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 
Balow, etc. 

I cannae chuse, but ever will 
Be luving to thy father stil : 
Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, 
My luve with him maun stil abyde : 
In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, 
Mine hart can neir depart him frae. 
Balow, etc. 

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, 
To faynings fals thine hart incline; 
Be loyal to thy luver trew, 
And nevir change hir for a new; 
If glide or faire, of hir have care, 
For women's banning's wonderous sair. 
Balow, etc. 

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, 
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; 

" Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile, 
And when thou wakest sweitly smile." 

I wish all maids be warned by mee, 
Xevir to trust man's curtesy; 
For if we doe but chance to bow, 
They '11 use us then they care not how. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 



jAY dawned ; — within a curtained room, 
Filled to faiutness with perfume, 
A lady lay at point of doom. 

Day closed; —a child had seen the light; 
But for the lady, fair and bright, 
She rested in undreaming night. 

Spring rose ; ■ — the lady's grave was green, 
And near it oftentimes was seen 
A gentle boy, with thoughtful mien. 

Years fled ; — he wore a manly face, 
And struggled in the world's rough race, 
And won, at last, a lofty place. 

And then — he died ! Behold before ye 

Humanity's poor sum and story; 

Life — Death — and all that is of Glory. 

Bryan Waller Procter. 
(Barry Cornwall.) 




sNE year ago, — a ringing voice, 
A clear blue eye, 
And clustering curls of sunny hair, 
Too fair to die. 

Only a year — no voice, no smile, 

No glance of eye, 
No clustering curls of golden hair, 

Fair but to die ! 

One year ago — what loves, what schemes 

Far into life ! 
AVhat joyous hopes, what high resolves, 

What generous strife ! 

The silent picture on the wall, 

The burial-stone 
Of all that beauty, life, and joy, 

Remain alone ! 

One year, — one year, one little year, 

And so much gone ! 
And yet the even flow of life 

Moves calmly on. 

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair 
Above that head ; 


No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 
Says he is dead. 

No pause or hush of merry birds 

That sing above, 
Tell us how coldly sleeps below 

The form we love. 

Where hast thou been this year, beloved? 

What hast thou seen, — 
What visions fair, what glorious life, 

Where thou hast been? 

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong 

'Twixt us and thee ; 
The mystic veil, when shall it fall, 

That we may see? 

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, 

But present still, 
And waiting for the coming hour 

Of God's sweet will. 

Lord of the living and the dead, 

Our Savior dear! 
We lay in silence at thy feet 

This sad, sad year. 

Haekiet Beecher Stowe. 


JRHEY sat and combed their beautiful hair, 
Their long bright tresses, one by one, 
As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, 
After the revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille ■ 

Idly they laughed, like other girls, 
Who, over the Are, when all is still, 

Comb out their braids and curls. 

Robes of satin and Brussels lace, 

Knots of flowers and ribbons too; 
Scattered about in every place, 

For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of white. 

The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, 
For the revel is done ; 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, 
Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 

And the little bare feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill, 
All out of the bitter Saint Agnes weather, 

While the fire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together, — 

Maud and Madge in robes of white, 

The pi'ettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
Curtained away from the chilly night, 
After the revel is done, - 

Float along in a splendid dream, 

To a golden gittern's tinkling tune, 
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, 
In a palace's grand saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 

Tropical odors sweeter than musk, 
Men and women with beautiful faces 
And eyes of tropical dusk, 

And one face shining out like a star, 

One face haunting the dreams of each, 
And one voice sweeter than others are, 
Breaking in silvery speech. 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom, 

An old, old story over again, 
As down the royal bannered room, 

To the arolden gittern's strain. 



Two and two, they dreamily walk, 

While an unseen spirit walks beside, 
And, all unheard in the lovers' talk, 

He claimeth one for a bride. 

O Maud and Madge ! dream on together, 

With never a pang of jealous fear; 
For, ere the bitter Saint Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year, 

Bobed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 

Braided brown hair, and golden tress, 
There '11 be only one of you left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press; 

Only one for the bridal pearls, 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace — 
Only one to blush through her curls 

At the sight of a lover's face. 

O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 

For you the revel has just begun; 
But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night 
The revel of life is done ! 

But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, 

Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
O beautiful Maud, you '11 never miss 

The kisses another hath won ! 

Nora Peeey. 


sifilEAVFS have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's 
And stars to set, — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

Day is for mortal care ; 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth; 

Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour — 
Its feverish hour — of mirth and song and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 
* And smile at thee, — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set, — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain- 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? 
The} r have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam ; 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home ; 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest; 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 

And stars to set, — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 



WE watched her breathing through the night, 
. Ml Her breathing soft and low, 
^jjf 5 ^ As in her breast the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied, — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 




gAD is our youth, for it is ever going, 
|f Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
if? Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
In current unperceived, because so fleet; 
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in 
sowing, — 
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing, — 

And still, 0, still their dying breath is sweet; 
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; 
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
A nearer good to cure an older ill; 
And sweet are all things when we learn to prize them, 
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies 
them ! 

Aubkey De Vere. 



EAR MARY," said the poor blind boy, 
" That little bird sings very long; 
Say, do you see him in his joy, 
And is he pretty as the song? " 

"Yes, Edward, yes," replied the maid; 

" I see the bird on yonder tree." 
The poor boy sighed, and gently said — 

" Sister, I wish that I could see. 

" The flowers, you say, are very fair, 
And bright green leaves are on the trees, 

And pretty birds are singing there — 
How beautiful for one who sees ! 

" Yet I the fragrant flowers can smell; 

And I can feel the green leaf 's shade ; 
And I can hear the notes that swell 

From those sweet birds that God has made. 

" So, sister, God to me is kind, 

Though sight, alas ! He has not given ; — 
But tell me, are there any blind 

Among the children up in heaven! " 

" No, dearest Edward, there all see; 

But why ask me a thing so odd ! " — 
" O Mary ! He 's so good to me, 

I thought I'd like to look at God." 

Ere long, Disease his hand had laid 
On that dear boy, so meek and mild : 

His widowed mother wept and prayed 
That God would spare her sightless child- 

He felt her warm tears on his face, 
And said — " Oh ! never weep for me ; 

I 'm going to a better place, 
Where God my Savior I shall see. 

" And you '11 he there, dear Mary, too; 

But, mother, when you get up there, 
Tell me, dear mother, that 'tis you — 

You know I never saw you here." 

He spoke no more, but sweetly smiled, 

Until the final blow was given. 
When God took up that poor blind child, 

And opened first his eyes in heaven. 



fTlirilE salt wind blows upon my cheek, 

g-*~= As it blew a year ago, 

■ j^ 1 When twenty boats were crushed among 

4 The rocks of Norman's woe; 

Y 'T was dark then ; 'tis light now, 
And the sails are leaning low. 

In dreams I pull the sea-weed o'er, 
And find a face not his, 

And hope another tide will be 
More pitying than this; 

The wind turns, the tide turns, — ■ 

They take what hope there is. 

My life goes on as life must go, 

With all its sweetness spilled ; 

My God, why should one heart of two 
Beat on. when one is stilled? 

Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck, 
Thy happy sparrows build. 

Though boats go down, men build again 
Whatever wind may blow ; 

If blight be in the wheat one year, 
They trust again and sow: 

The grief comes, the change comes, 
The tides run hisrh and low. 



Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm, 
The summers bloom and go ; — 

The sea withholds vay dead ; I walk 
The bar when tides are low, 

And wonder how the grave-grass 
Can have the heart to grow. 

Flow on, O unconsenting sea, 

And keep my dead below; 

The night-watch set for me is long, 
But, through it all, I know, 

Or life comes, or death comes, 

God leads the eternal flow. 


Hiram Rich. 

^~Y"NIC time my soul was pierced as with a sword, 
Contending still with men untaught and wild, 
When He who to the prophet lent his gourd 
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. 

A summer gift, my precious flower was given, 

A very summer fragrance was its life ; 
Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven, 

When home I turned, a weary man of strife. 

With unformed laughter, musically sweet, 
How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss : 

With outstretched arms , its care-wrought father greet ! 
O, in the desert, what a spring was this ! 

A few short months it blossomed near my heart : 
A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad ; 

But that home-solace nerved me for my part, 
And of the babe I was exceeding glad. 

Alas ! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was djdng, 
(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night!) 

And he who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying, 
Took gently home the child of my delight. 

Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished, 
But gradual faded from our love away : 

As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished, 
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day. 

My blessed Master saved me from repining, 

So tenderly He sued me for His own ; 
So beautiful He made my babe's declining, 

Its dying blessed me as its birth had done. 

And daily to my board at noon and even 
Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, 

That we might commune of our rest in Heaven, 
Gazing the while on death, without its sting. 

And of the ransom for that baby paid 

So very sweet at times our converse seemed, 

That the sure truth of grief a gladness made : 
Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed! 

There were two milk-white doves my wife had nour 
ished : 

And I, too, loved, erewhile, at times to stand 
Marking how each the other fondly cherished, 

And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand! 

So tame they grew, that to his cradle flying, 
Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest; 


And to the murmurs of his sleep replying, 
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast. 

'T was a fair sight : the snow-pale infant sleeping, 
So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild, 

Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping; 
Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child ! 

Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining, 
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play ; 

And on the day he died, with sad note pining, 
One gentle bird would not be frayed away. 


"And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand." 

His mother found it, when she rose, sad hearted, 
At early dawn, with sense of nearingill; 

And when at last, the little spirit parted, 
The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. 

The other flew to meet my sad home-riding, 

As with a human sorrow in its coo ; 
To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding. 

Most pitifully plained — and parted too. 

'T was my first hansel and propine to Heaven; 

And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod, 
Precious His comforts — once an infant given, 

And offered with two turtle-doves to God! 

Mks. A. Stuart Menteath. 




|HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of hlissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget, — ■ 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met 

To live one day of parting love? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, — 
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 


- a ~™/z£=§z/vw~3— 


f|T was many and many a year ago, 

ii In a kins'dom by the sea, 

X That a maiden lived whom you may know 

I By the name of Annabel Lee ; 

And this maiden she lived with no other 
Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee, — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of cloud-land, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre, 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, 

In her sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgak Allan Poe. 



That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should she know of death? 

I met a little cottage girl : 
She was eight years old she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 



She had a rustic woodland air, 
And she was wildly clad : 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; — 
Her beauty made me glad. 

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
How many may you be?" 
''How many? Seven in all," she said, 
And wondering looked at me. 

'■And where are they? I pray you tell." 
She answered, "Seven are we; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 

"Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And in the churchyard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

"You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid how this ma}' be." 

Then did the little maid reply, 
"Seven boys and girls are we; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
Beneath the churchyard tree." 

"You run about, my little maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little maid replied, 

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door 
And they are side by side. 

"My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
I sit and sing to them. 

"And often after sunset, sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

"The first that died was little Jane; 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain ; 
And then she went away. 

"So in the churchyard she was laid; 
And, when the grass was dry, 
Together rouud her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

"And when the ground was white with snow, 

And I could run and slide, 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side." 

"How many are you, then," said I, 
"If they two are in heaven?" 
The little maiden did reply, 
"O master! wa are seven." 

"But they are dead; those two are dead? 
Their spirits are in heaven !" 
'T was throwing words away; for still 
The little maid would have her will, 
And said, "Nay, we are seven!" 

William Wordsworth. 



She is lying 
With her lips apart. 

She is dying 
Of a broken heart. 

Whisper ! 
She is going 
To her final rest. 

Whisper ! 
Life is growing 
Dim within her breast. 

She is sleeping ; 
She has breathed her last. 
Gently ! 
While you are weeping, 
She to heaven has passed. 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 


jjp^lJE are what the past has made us. The results of the pasl are ourselves. The 
sMMl perishable emotions, and the momentary acts of bygone years, are the scaffolding 
on which we built up the being that we are. 




| HAVE three kisses in my life, 
i So sweet and sacred unto me, 
That now, till death-dews on them rest, 
My lips shall ever kissless be. 

One kiss was given in childhood's hour, 
By one who never gave another; 

Through life and death I still shall feel 
That last kiss of my mother. 

The next kiss burned my lips for years; 
For years my wild heart reeled in bliss, 

-e~-*~™lfl£^Z/vis~ r - 

At every memory of that hour 
When my lips felt young love's first kiss. 

The last kiss of the sacred three, 
Had all the woe which e'er can move 

The heart of woman ; it was pressed 
Upon the dead lips of my love. 

When lips have felt the dying kiss, 
And felt the kiss of buruiug love, 

And kissed the dead, then nevermore 
In kissing should they think to move. 

Hattie Tyng Gkiswold. 


yTJTHE maid who binds her warrior's sash, 
iArf With smile that well her pain dissembles, 
*ff^ The while beneath her drooping lash 
ii One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, 

Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
The bolts of death around him rattle, 

Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er 
Was poured upon the field of battle! 

" The wife who girds 
'Mid little ones who 

her husband's sword, 
weep or wonder." 

Though Heaven alone records the tear, 
And fame shall never know her story, 

Her heart has shed a drop as dear 
As e'er bedewed the field of glory! 

The wife who girds her husband's sword, 
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 

And bravely speaks the cheering word, 
What though her heart be rent asunder, 

The mother who conceals her grief, 

While to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
With no one but her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
Sheds holy blood, as e'er the sod 

Received on Freedom's field of honor! 

Thomas Buchanan Bead. 




I^^BDEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's 

come hame, 
And a' the weary vvarld to rest are gane, 
The waes o' my heart fall in showers frae 

my ee, 
Unkempt by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound 

by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his 

But saving a crown he had uaithing else beside : 
To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea, 
And the crown and the pound they were baith for me. 

He had nae been gane a twalmonth and a day, 
When my faither brak his arm, and the cow was 

stown away ; 
My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie was at sea, 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a courting me. 

My faither could na work, my mither could na spin, 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I could na win ; 
Auld Eob maintained them baith, an wi' tears in 

his ee, 
Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye nae marry me?" 

My heart it said nay, and I looked for Jamie back, 
But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack — 
The ship was a wrack, why did na Jamie dee? 
Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me ! 

My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak, 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to 

break : 
They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the 

And so Kobin Gray he was gudeman to me! 

I had na been a wife a week but only four, 
When mournful as I sat on the stane at my door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could na think it he, 
Till he said, " I'm come hame, love, to marry thee." 

Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say, — 
We took but ae kiss, and tare oursels away : 
I wish I were dead, but I am na lik' to dee, 
Oh, why was I born to say, Wae's me ! 

Igang like a gaist, but I care na much to spin; 
I dare na think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
So I will do my best a gude wife to be, 
For auld Robin Gray he is kind to me. 

Lady Anne Barnakd. 

tssS— 8S= 


SING unto my roundelay ! 

O drop the briny tear with me ! 
Dance no more at holiday ; 
Like a running river be. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow tree. 

Black his hair as the summer night, 
White his neck as the winter snow, 

Ruddy his face as the morning light; 

Cold he lies in the grave below. 

My love is dead, etc. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; 

Quick in dance as thought can be; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 

O, he lies by the willow tree. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Hark! the raven flaps his wing 

In the briered dell below ; 
Hark the death -owl loud doth sing 

To the nightmares as they go. 
My love is dead, etc. 

See! the white moon shines on high; 
Whiter is my true-love's slvroud, 

Whiter than the morning sky, 
Whiter than the evening cloud. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Here upon my true-love's grave 

Shall the barren flowers be laid 
Nor one holy saint to save 

All the coldness of a maid. 
My love is dead, etc. 

With my hands I '11 bind the briers 

Round his holy corse to gre; 
Oupbant fairy, light your fires; 

Here my body still shall be. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 

Drain my heart's blood away; 
Life and all its good I scorn, 

Dance by night, or feast by day. 
My love is dead, etc. 

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 

Bear me to your lethal tide. 
I die ! I come ! my true-love waits. 

Thus the damsel spake, and died. 

Thomas Chatterton. 




WAS thirty years ago, and now 

We meet once more," I sighed and said, 
^ " To talk of Eton and old times; 

But every second word is ' Dead! ' " 

We fill the glass, and watch the wine 
Rise, as thermometers will do, 

Then rouse the fire into a hlaze, 
And once more, boys, we share the glow. 

" Do you remember Hawtrey's time? 
Pod Major, and the way he read? 

And Powis and Old Stokes? Alas! 
Our every second word is ' Dead! ' " 

Well, springs must have their autumns too, 
And suns must set as they must shine ; 

And, waiter, here, a bottle more, 
And let it be your oldest wine. 

And gather closer to the fire, 
And let the gas flare overhead ; 

Some day our children will meet thus, 
And they will praise or blame the Dead. 


;3p*Y" tDe wayside, on a mossy stone, 
: &%r Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; 
e *f^° Oft I marked him sitting there alone, 
J4 All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; 
Poor, unknown, 
By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 

" When the stranger seemed to mark our play, 
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted " 

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; 

Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding; 
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat; 

Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding : 
There he sat! 
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. 

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
No one sympathizing, no one heeding, 

None to love him for his thin gray hair, 
And the furrows all so mutely pleading 
Age and care : 

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 

It was summer, and we went to school, 
Dapper country lads and little maidens ; 

Taught the motto of the " Dunce's stool," — 
Its grave import still my fancy ladens, — 
"Here's a fool!" 

It was summer, and we went to school. 

When the stranger seemed to mark our play, 
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, 

I remember well, too well, that day ! 
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started 
Would not stay 

When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, 
Oh, to me her name was always Heaven! 

She besought him all his grief to tell, 
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) 
Isabel ! 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 

" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old; 

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; 
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." 

Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, 
Down it rolled ! 
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." 

"I have tottered here to look once more 
On the pleasant scene where I delighted 

In the careless, happy days of yore, 
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core : 

I have tottered here to look once more. 



"All the picture now to me how dear! 

E'en this gray old rock where I am seated 
Is a jewel worth my journey here; 

Ah, that such a scene must be completed 
With a tear! 
All the picture now to me how dear! 

" Old stone school-house !— it is still the same ; 

There 's the very step I so oft mounted ; 
There 's the window creaking in its frame, 

And the notches that I cut and counted 

For the game. 

Old stone school-house, it is still the same. 

"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, 
Bound the pasture where the nocks were grazing,. 

Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails 
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising ; 
Traps and trails! 

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. 

"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain: 
Pond and river still serenely flowing : 

Cot there nestling in the shaded lane, 
Where the lily of my heart was blowing. 
Mary Jane ! 

There 's the mill that ground our yellow grain. 



* There 's the mill that ground our yellow grain 

"In the cottage yonder I was born; 

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; 
There the fields of clover, wheat and corn ; 

There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; 
Ah, forlorn ! 
In the cottage yonder I was born. 

" Those two gateway sycamores you see 
Then were planted just so far asunder 

That long well-pole from the path to free, 

And the wagon to pass safely under; 


Those two gateway sycamores you see. 

"There 's the orchard where we used to climb 
When my mates and I were boys together, 

Thinking nothing of the flight of time, 
Fearing naught but work and rainy weather : 
Past its prime ! 

There 's the orchard where we used to climb. 

" There "s the gate on which I used to swing, 
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable ; 

But alas ! no more the morn shall bring 
That dear group around my father's table ; 
Taken wing ! 

There 's the gate on which I used to swing. 

I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled. 

Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; 
That old tree can tell of sweet things said 

"When around it Jane and I were straying ; 
She is dead ! 
I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled. 

" Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, 
Tracing silently life's changeful story, 

So familiar to my dim old eye, 
Points me to seven that are now in glory 
There on high! 

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. 



Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, 
Guided thither by an angel mother; 

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 
Sire and sisters, and my little brother, 
Gone to God ! 

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 

"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; 

Bless the holy lesson! —but, ah, never 
Shall I hear again those songs of praise, 

Those sweet voices silent now forever ! 

Peaceful days ! 

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. 

" There my Mary blest me with her hand 
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, 

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, 

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; 
Broken band ! 

There my Mary blest me with her hand. 

" I have come to see that grave once more, 
And the sacred place where we delighted, 

Where we worshiped, in the days of yore, 
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core! 

I have come to see that grave once more. 

" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old; 

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, 
Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." 

In his eye another pearl of sorrow, 
Down it rolled ! 
" Angel," said he sadly, '■ I am old." 

By the wayside on a mossy stone, 
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; 

" Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable." 

Still I marked him sitting there alone, 
All the landscape, like a page, perusing; 
Poor, unknown! 
By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 

Ralph Hoyt. 


|HIS book is all that 's left me now, — 
I Tears will unbidden start, — 
" v With faltering lip and throbbiug brow 
I press it to my heart. 
For many generations past 

Here is our family tree ; 
My mother's hands this Bible clasped, 
She, dying, gave it me. 

Ah! well do I remember those 

Whose names these records bear; 
Who round the hearthstone used to close, 

After the evening prayer, 
And speak of what these pages said 

In tones my heart would thrill ! 
Though they are with the silent dead, 

Here are they living still! 

My father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters, dear; 
How calm was my poor mother's look, 

Who loved God's word to hear! 
Her angel face, — I see it yet! 

What thronging memories come! 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home! 

Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I 've tiled ; 
When all were false, I found thee true, 

My counselor and guide. 
The mines of earth no treasures give 

That could this volume buy; 
In teaching me the way to live, 

It taught me how to die ! 

George P. Morris. 



f'^FT ; SOLDIER of the Leo-ion lay dying in Algiers, And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name 

pK There was lack of woman's nursing, there was To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, 

dearth of woman's tears; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's 

I* But a comrade stood beside him, while his life- sword and mine) 

f blood ebbed away, For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the 

And bent, with pitying gkuji ces, to hear what Rhine, 
he might say. 

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's "There's another, — not a sister; in the happy days 

hand, gone by 

And he said, " I nevermore shall see my own, my na- You'd have known her by the merriment that 

tive laud ; sparkled in her eye ; 

Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle soorn- 

of mine, ing, — 

Fori was horn at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Bhine. O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes 

heaviest mourning ! 

" Tell my brothers and companions, wheu they meet Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon 

and crowd around, be risen, 

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of pris- 

ground, on) , — 
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun- 
was done, light shine 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bingen on the 

sun; Bhine. 
And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old 

in wars, — u j saw the blue Rhine sweep along, — I heard, or 

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of seemed to hear 

many scars; The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet 

And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's and clear- 

morn decline, ^nd d own the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 

And one had come from Bingen,— fair Bingen on the The ecllo ing chorus sounded, through the evening 

Rhine. calm and still; 

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, 

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her w | tl] f r i e iidly talk, 

old age, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remem- 

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a bered walk ! 

cage. And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — 

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child But we , n meet u0 more at Bingen— loved Bingen on 

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles t ]j e Rhi ne ." 

fierce and wild ; 

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty _. . ... . , ■ t ,, *,„„ „„ , • „„ 

J His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, — his grasp 

T , * « ° al 1 , x. i. , n. n x. i i t was childish weak,— 

I let them take whate'er they would, — but kept my „ . . . , . „ 4 „-u„j „„j „„„~~a 

i j jj lg e „ eg „ ut ou a dying look, — he sighed and ceased 

father's sword; , , 

TO m~)P*lK " 

And with boyish love I buns: it where the bright light , ' ..„, . . . , ff v„ ,„„.i, „fi;(„i,„,i 

_ ■' ° so jj is conlra( j e bent to lift him, but the spark of lite had. 

used to shine, „ , 

On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the „,, , ,. ' . .. _ . . . . i„„j,- j qo h! 

° ° ' ° The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! 

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she 

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with looked down 

droopino- head, 0n the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses 

When the troops come marching home again with glad strewn; 

and gallant tread Yes > calml y on that dreadful scene her pale light 

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and stead- seemed to shine, 

fast As it shone on distant Bingen,— fair Bingen on the 

For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to Rhine. 

die- Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 




|AY, be not angry, chide her not, 
Although the child hast erred, 
■*W f - Nor bring the tears into her eyes 
J4. By one ungentle word. 

1 But now in grief she walks alone 
By every garden bed." 

When that sweet linnet sang, before 

Our summer roses died, 
A sister's arm was round her neck, 

A brother at her side. 

But now in grief she walks alone, 

By every garden bed, 
That sister's clasping arm is cold, 

That brother's voice is fled. 

And when she sits beside my chair, 

With face so pale and meek, 
And eyes bent o'er her book, I see 

The tear upon her cheek. 

Then chide her not; but whisper now, 

"Thy trespass is forgiveu," — 
How caust thou frown on that pale face? 

She is the last of seven. 



E count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild flowers who will stoop to number? 
A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy fame is proud to win them; 
Alas for those that never sing, 

But die with all their music in them! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story: 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
But where the glistening uight-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 

O hearts that break, and give no sign, 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine, 

Slow-dropped from misery's crushing presses! 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given, 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

-ar- 2 - 


||HERE is no flock, however watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying ; 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 



There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysiaii, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
The bond which nature gives, 

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


|HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on Life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn or screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout, are past; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was "Victory or death." 

Long has the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer light had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spaiu; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'T was in that hour his stern command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew, 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath had swept 

O'er Angostura's plain — 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above the mouldering slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 



Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave ; 
She claims from war his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. ■ 

So 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Ear from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, 

On many a bloody shield; 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 

Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished age hath flown, 

The story how ye fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 

Theodore O'Hara. 

"Bring flowers of early spring 
To deck each soldier's grave." 


d| TREW all their graves with flowers, 
W$ The}' for their country died ; 
And freely gave their lives for ours, 
Their country's hope and pride. 

Bring flowers to deck each sod, 
Where rests their sacred dust ; 

Though gone from earth, they live to God, 
Their everlasting trust! 

Fearless in Freedom's cause 
They suffered, toiled, and bled ; 

And died obedient to her laws, 
By truth and conscience led. 

Oft as the year returns, 

She o'er their graves shall weep ; 
And wreathe with flowers their funeral urns, 

Their memory dear to keep. 

Bring flowers of early spring 

To deck each soldier's grave, 
And summer's fragrant roses bring, — 

They died our land to save. 

Jones Vert. 




|j| MARKED when vernal meads were bright, 
HI And many a primrose smiled, 

fl marked her, blithe as morning light 
A dimpled three years' child. 

A basket on one tender arm 

Contained her precious store 
Of spring-flowers in their freshest charm, 

Told proudly o'er and o'er. 

The summer months swept by : again 

That loving pair I met. 
On russet heath, and bowery lane, 

Th' autumnal sun had set! 

And- chill and damp that Sunday eve 
Breathed on the mourners' road, 

That bright-eyed little one to leave 
Safe in the Saints' abode. 

"A basket on one tender arm 
Contained her precious store.' 

The other wound with earnest hold 

About her blooming guide, 
A maid who scarce twelve years had told. 

So walked they side by side. 

Behind, the guardian sister came, 
Her bright brow dim and pale — 

O cheer thee, maiden ! in His Name, 
Who stilled Jairus' wail! 

One a bright bud, and one might seem 
A sister flower half blown. 

Full joyous on their loving dream 
The sky of April shone. 


Thou mourn' st to miss the fingers soft, 

That held by thine so fast, 
The fond appealing eye, full oft 

Tow'rd thee for refuge cast. 



Sweet toils, sweet cares, forever gone ! 

No more from stranger's face, 
Or startling sound, the timid one 

Shall hide in thine embrace. 

The first glad earthly task is o'er, 

And dreary seems thy way. 
But what if nearer than before 

She watch thee even to-day? 

What if henceforth by Heaven's decree 
She leave thee not alone, 

But in her turn prove guide to thee 
In ways to Angels known? 

O yield thee to her whisperings sweet: 

Away with thoughts of gloom ! 
In love the loving spirits greet 

Wlio wait to bless her tomb. 

In loving hope with her unseeD, 

Walk as in hallowed air. 
When foes are strong and trials keen, 

Think, "What if she be there?" 

John Keble. 


;HREE roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed 
?5^ Each with its loveliness as with a crown, 
J4 Drooped in a florist's window in a town. 

The third, a widow, with new grief made wild, 
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

" The third, a widow, with new £"ef made wild, 
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child." 

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest, 

Like flower on flower that night on beauty's breast. 

The second rose, as virginal and fair, 
Shrank in the tangles of a harlot's hair. 


5^0T?E banks, and braes, and streams around 
M The castle o' Montgomery, 

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry; 

For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Maiy. 

Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder; 
But oh! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early! 
Now green 's the sod. and cauld 's the clay 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live 1113' Highland Mary. 

Robert Burns. 





: near, 

afTWEEAD lightly, she is i 

br-^s Under the snow ; 

*<$'■■ Speak gentry, she can hear 


The daisies grow. 

All her bright golden hair 
Tarnished with rust, 

She that was young and fair 
Fallen to dust. 

Lily-like, white as snow, 
She hardly knew 


She was a woman, so 
Sweetly she grew. 

Coffin-board, heavy stone, 

Lie on her breast ; 
I vex my heart alone, 

She is at rest. 

Peace, peace; she cannot hear 

Lyre or sonnet; 
All my life 's buried here — 

Heap earth upon It. 

Oscar Wilde. 

' Children would run to meet him on his way.' 


3T>itTT list that moan ! 'tis the poor blind man's dog, 
lAsS His guide for many a day, now come to mourn 
| The master and the friend — conjunction rare : 
I A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul, 
Though bred to brave the deep ; the lightning's flash 
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless eyes. 
He was a welcome guest through all his range 
(It was not wide) ; no dog would bay at him; 
Children would run to meet him on his way. 

And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb 
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales : 
Then would he teach the elflns how to plait 
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship ; 
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand 
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips. 
Peace to thy spirit! that now looks on me, 
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt 
To see thee wandering darkling on thy way. 

James Gkahame. 




pE will go, my love, together to the golden Why vex with thoughts of dolor the peace of happy 


autumn field ; 
Ah ! mellow falls the sunshine where the 
' If " roses blow ; 

J4. This day in wood and meadow we '11 forget 
the pale lips sealed; 
This day to love and gladness, whate'er the morrows 
Sweet, sweet the peaceful forest where the cool 
streams flow. 

hours? ' 

Swift the lights and shadows where the aspens 

The ah - is thrilled with bird-notes, in the rapture of 
their singing ; 
Minor chords are sounding in the dove's plaint, soft 
and low; 
I am drunken with the gladness that Nature's grace is 

Through the dread plague-stricken city passed the Be merry, then, O sweetheart; list the woodland eho- 
lovers on their way, rus ringing." 

Far floats the yellow banner in the morning's glow; Far-off bells are tolliug a requienl, sad and slow. 

Through the Auks of dead and dying, where the fever- 
smitten lay, 
Through the wailing and the horror of the fateful 
autumn day. 
Ah ! God's wrath lieth heavy where the south-winds 

" Nay, love, why gaze you backward at the dead-cart 
in its round? 
Tolls the solemn death-bell, tolling long and slow; 
Death holds the pallid city, but we '11 cross its farthest 

And forget for one brief hour every ghastly sight and 
List! that voice that crieth, "Woe, ye people, 
woe! " 

She closed her heavy eyelids, laid her head upon his 
shoulder ; 
Nevermore the dreaming of the happy long ago. 
"Alas! love, 'neath the flowers I see the dead leaves 

I am chill, so chill and weary; has the sunny day 
grown colder? " 
Autumn leaves are falling, as the west- winds come 
and go. 

Plague-stricken? Yes, O lover, for the Yellow King 
has seized her, 
Vast the realm of shadows, where no earth winds 
Midst the bird songs and the clover and the fresh free 
air he claims her. 
Like children through the meadows they wandered, Vainly, vainly from his power would thy frantic love 

hand in hand; 
Soft the mossy hillocks where the violets grow; 
They gathered leaf and flower; but she wrote upon 

the sand, 
"Ay, strong is love, but stronger is "Death's unsparing 
Sad the under voices in the river's flow. 

withhold her, 
Weep o'er sweetest flowers, killed by winter's snow. 

He laid her 'neath the aspens, but e'er the first gray 
Blessed the peaceful garden where God's lilies blow, 
Her lovely e3 r es half opened, and without sigh or 
"Why speak of death, beloved? to-day is surely ours; Her soul beyond the shadows had sprung to meet the 

Each hour holds a secret which the angels know ; morning. 

Yon gracious sky above us, our feet upon the flowers ; Oh, the blissful morning which His people know ! 

Marie B. Williams. 
^ >o^ ° 



qfAlpHEN the hours of day are numbered, 
WSl And the voices of the night 
^§p|P Wake the better soul that slumbered 
^* To a holy, calm delight, 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful firelight 
Dance upon the parlor wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door, — 
The beloved ones, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more : 

He, the } r ouug and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife, 

By the roadside fell and perished, 
Weary with the march of life ! 



They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the being beauteous 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep, 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine ; 

- ;s asSe^S^» 

And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 
Soft rebukes in blessings ended, 

Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely, 

All my fears are laid aside 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


THOUGHT of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, 
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride, 

Of him who walked in glory and in joy 
Behind his plough along the mountain-side : 
By our own spirits are we deified ; 

"I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, 
The sleepless soul, that perished in his pride." 

We poets in our youth begin in gladness, 
But thereof come in the end despondency and 

William Wordsworth. 


|OW steadfastly she 'd worked at it! 
, Ispf How lovingly had drest 
■-'f'fC With all hsr would-be mother's wit 
J4> That little rosy nest ! 

How longingly she 'd hung on it!— 
It sometimes seemed, she said, 

There lay beneath its coverlet, 
A little sleeping head. 

He came at last, the tiny guest, 

Ere bleak December fled; 
That rosy nest he never prest — 

Her coffin was his bed. 

Austin Dobson. 


J^NTO the world he looked with sweet surprise; 
The children laughed so when they saw his eyes. 

Into the world a rosy hand iu doubt 

He reached — a pale hand took one rose-bud out. 

"And that was all — quite all!" No, surely! But 
The children cried so when his eyes were shut. 
Sallie M. B. Piatt. 



MJIHERE is a Reaper whos 
Wm And, with his sickle 1 

jse name is Death, 

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath-, 
And the flowers that arrow between. 

"Shall I have nought that is fair?'' saith he; 

"Have nought but the bearded grain? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 

I will give them all hack aa-ain." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
He kissed their drooping leaves ; 

It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled; 
"Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where He was once a child. 



"They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them all again 
In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'T was an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


" Touch me once more , my father.' 

lllpEFRESH me with the bright-blue violet, 

•i And put the pale faint-scented primrose near, 
For I am breathing yet : 
Shed not one silly tear; 
But when mine eyes are set, 
Scatter the fresh flowers thick upon my bier, 
And let my early grave with morning dew be wet. 

I have passed swiftly o'er the pleasant earth ; 
My life hath been the shadow of a dream ; 
The joyousness of birth 
Did ever with me seem : 


My spirit had no dearth, 
But dwelt forever by a full, swift stream, 
Lapt in a golden trance of never-failing mirth. 

Touch me once more, my father, ere my hand 
Have not answer for thee ; — kiss my cheek 
Ere the blood fix and stand 
Where flits the hectic streak ; 
Give me thy last command, 
Before I lie all undisturbed and meek, 
Wrapt in the snowy folds of funeral swathing-band. 

Henry Alford. 




JYTfEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Jill Tears from the depths of some divine despair 
*§¥? Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
J-L In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

"In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more." 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the under world, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

^i^HO ne'er his bread in sorrow ate — 
SSsR Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours 

Weeping upon his bed hath sate — 
He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. 




jjlOW can it shine so bright, 
I|§1 The garish sun 

fif That shines upon our dead ! 

Veiled though the pitying stars of night, 
No lingering ruth this morn — not one 

Poor cloud to spread, 
With softened touch, its brief eclipse 
Upon the cold and silent lips, 
The weighted eyes, the solemn rest, 
The little hands upon the breast, 
Where he lies — dead! 

These roistering winds that toss, 

In fierce-blown swirl, 
The frost-plucked autumn leaves, 
Rudely they sport with death and loss, 
Or, sinking, mock with sobbing purl 

The heart that grieves : 
As joyous and as free as they, 
As full of life and glee as they, 
Was he, one little, week ago, 
Who lies in yonder room so low, 

My boy ! and dead ! 

The peevish crows o'erhead 

Caw on and on ; 
The winter-birds chirp clear, 
Mid pause in feast of berries red, 
Cheery and pert, though song-mates gone, 

And woods are sere ; 

Sun-kissed and glad the stream flows on — 
Oh God ! and all the world goes on 
Light-hearted still, the same as when 
He breathed it all — the same as then, 
And yet he's dead! 

To-morrow — and the end! 

The coffln-lid 
Will close, and o'er it we 
With tears and bursting hearts will bend, 
And think of all forever hid, 

My boy, with thee ! 
Thy sunny ways, thy kindling joy, 
Thy mind's quick reach, my bright-eyed boy! 
Thy gracious promise unfulfilled, 
The high-set hopes we could but build, 

All with the dead ! 

Oh anguish vain ! There is 

No plea to move 
The tyrant heart of Death ; 
No respite, won with agonies 
E'en such as Love and Grief approve, 

With sobbing breath : 
Not all Earth's tears the hands could stay 
That dig his little grave to-day! 

Pity, O Christ! our eyes unseal 

To see, beyond our sad anele, 

He lives, though dead ! 

E. Hannaford 



|H! call my brother back to me! 
I cannot play alone ; 
The summer comes with flower and bee — 
Where is my brother gone? 

"The butterfly is glancing bright 

Across the sunbeam's track;' 
I care not now to chase its flight — 

Oh ! call my brother back ! 

" The flowers run wild — the flowers we sow'd 

Around our garden tree ; 
Our vine is drooping with its load — 

Oh ! call him back to me ! " 

"He could not hear thy voice, fair child, 
He may not come to thee; 

The face that once like spring-time smiled, 
On earth no more thou'lt see. 

"A rose's brief bright life of joy, 

Such unto him was given ; 
Go — thou must play alone, my hoy! 

Thy brother is in heaven! " 

" And has he left his birds and flowers, 

And must I call in vain ; 
And, through the long, long summer hours, 

Will he not come again? 

" And by the brook, and in the glade, 

Are all our wanderings o'er? 
Oh, while my brother with me played, 

Would I had loved him more! " 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


BOSOM empty of a heart of pain makes a lustreless life; 
a heart bleeds reveals hidden virtues. 

but a bosom in which 




I^OOR lone Hannah, 

llSls Sitting at the window binding shoes. 

f Faded, wrinkled, 

Sitting, stitching in a mournful muse, 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she, 
When the bloom was on the tree; 
Spring and winter 
Hannah 's at the window binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper, 
"Is there from the fishers any news?" 
Oh her heart's adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone! 
Night and morning 
Hannah 's at the window binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow, 
And the waves are laughing so ! 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 

May is passing; 
Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes. 

Hannah shudders, 
For the mild southwester mischief brews. 
Bound the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound a schooner sped ; 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

'Tis November : 
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews ; 

From Newfoundland, 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben? " 

Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views ; 

Twenty seasons — 
Never one has brought her any news. 

"Still her dim eyes silently 

Chase the white" sails o'er the sea. : ' 

Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea ; 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Lucr Larcom. 



|CTrHE strongest light casts deepest shade. 
SSpsS, The dearest love makes dreariest loss, 
*%'- And she his birth so blest had made 
it Stood by him dying on the cross. 

Yet since not grief but joy shall last, 
The day and not the night abide, 

And all time's shadows, earthward cast, 
Are lights upon the " other side; " 

Through what long bliss that shall not fail 
The darkest hour shall brighten on! 

Better than any angel's " Hail! " 
The memory of " Behold thy Son! " 

Blest in thy lowly heart to store 
The homage paid at Bethlehem ; 

But far more blessed evermore, 
Thus to have shared the taunts and shame 

Thus with thy pierced heart to have stood 
Mid mocking crowds and owned him thine, 

True through a world's ingratitude, 
And owned in death by lips divine. 

Elizabeth (Rundle) Charles. 




" fffenLD, whither goest thou 
m 'Over the snowy hill? 
| The frost-air nips so keen, 

That the very clouds are still, 

Thither go I : — keen the morning 
Bites, and deep the snow; 

But, in spite of them, 
Up the frosted hill I go." 


"They must be cleared this morning 
Fromthe thick-laid snow." 

From the golden folding curtains 
The sun hath not looked forth. 

And hrown the snow-mist hangs 
Round the mountains to the north." 

" Kind stranger, dost thou see 
Yonder church-tower rise, 

Thrusting its crown of pinnacles 
Into the looming skies? 

" Child, and what dost thou? 

When thou shalt be there? 
The chancel door is shut — 

There is no hell for prayer; 
Yestermorn and yestereven 

Met we there and prayed ; 
But now none is there 

Save the dead lowly laid." 



" Stranger, underneath that tower 

On the western side, 
A happy, happy company 

In holy peace abide ; 
My father, and my mother, 

And my sisters four — 
Their beds are made in swelling turf, 

Fronting the western door." 

" Child, if thou speak to them 
They will not answer thee ; 

They are deep down in earth — 
Thy face they cannot see. 

Then, wherefore art thou going 

Over the snow hill? 
Why seek thy low-laid family, 

Where they lie cold and still?" 

" Stranger, when the summer heats 

Would dry their turfy bed, 
Duly from this loving hand 

With water it is fed ; 
They must he cleared this morning 

From the thick-laid snow; — 
So now along the frosted field, 

Stranger, let me go." 

Henry Alford. 


AVE you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Bahy Bell 

Into this world of ours? 
The gates of heaven were left ajar: 
With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of Paradise, 
She saw this planet, like a star, 

Hung in the glistening depths of even, — 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 
O'er which the white-winged angels go. 

Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 
She touched a bridge of flowers, — those feet, 
So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels, 
They fell like dew upon the flowers : 
Then all the air grew strangely sweet! 
And thus came dainty Baby Bell 

Into this world of ours. 

She came, and brought delicious May. 

The swallows built beneath the eaves; 

Like sunlight, in and out the leaves 
The robins went the livelong day; 
The lily swung its noiseless hell ; 

And o'er the porch the trembling vine 

Seemed bursting with its veins of wine, 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! 
O. earth was full of singing-birds 
And opening spring-tide flowers, 
When the dainty Baby Bell 

Came to this world of ours ! 
O, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, 
How fair she grew from day to day! 
What woman-nature filled her eyes, 
What poetry within them lay! 
Those deep and tender twilight eyes, 

So full of meaning, pure and bright 

As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 
And so we loved her more and more : 

Ah, never in our hearts before 

Was love so lovely horn : 
We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen — 

The land beyond the morn; 
And for the love of those dear eyes, 
For love of her whom God led forth 
(The mother's being ceased on earth 
When Baby came from Paradise,) — 
For love of Him who smote our lives, 

And woke the chords of joy and pain, 
We said, "Dear Christ ! " — our hearts hent down 

Like violets after rain. 

And now the orchards, which were white 
And red with blossoms when she came, 
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime ; 
The clustered apples hurnt like flame, 
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell, 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 
The grapes hung purpling in the grange; 
And time wrought just as rich a change 

In little Baby Bell. 
Her lissome form more perfect grew. 
And in her features we could trace. 
In softened curves, her mother's face. 
Her angel-nature ripened too: 
We thought her lovely when she came, 
But she was holy, saintly now:— 
Around her pale, angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame! 

God's hand had taken away the seal 
That held the portals of her speech ; 

And oft she said a few strange words 
Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 

She never was a child to us, 

We never held her being's key; 

We could not teach her holy things . 
She was Christ's self in purity. 



It came upon us by degrees, 

We saw its shadow ere it fell, — 

The knowledge that our God had sent 

His messenger for Baby Bell. 

We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, 

And all our hopes were changed to fears, 

And all our thoughts ran into tears 

Like sunshine into rain. 
We cried aloud in our belief, 
"O, smite us gently, gently, God! 
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 
And perfect grow through grief." 
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; 

Her heart was folded deep in ours, 
Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell! 

At last he came, the messenger, 

The messenger from unseen lands : 
And what did dainty Baby Bell? 
She only crossed her little hands, 
She only looked more meek and fair! 
We parted back her silken hair, 
We wove the roses round her brow, — 
White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers ! 
And thus went dainty Baby Bell 
Out of this world of ours ! 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



|ON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? 
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown, 
Who wept with delight when you gave her a 
And trembled with fear at your frown? 
In the ol